tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86188062015-03-02T08:05:36.681+08:00citybuoy x city songs.citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.comBlogger485125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-59611052040324399222015-02-24T11:19:00.000+08:002015-02-25T00:19:16.156+08:00on how I got over him<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SOLT8OVz3PI/VOvtkRBahOI/AAAAAAAAY7M/I3asOg-LtQ8/s800/WP_20140929_20_33_08_Pro.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" src="http://redmp3.ru/stream/545789/all-saints-dreams.mp3" style="width: 102%;" type="audio/mp3"></audio><br /></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Ps0wS08TVv4/VOvoJcMHxbI/AAAAAAAAY60/Ud75Ts4dcrk/s800/all_saints-saints_and_sinners.jpg" style="background: none; border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0px;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />And you wonder how it happened. How you jumped heart-first off a skyscraper and into this stranger’s bed. How you trusted his words, the little they meant, the iceberg you imagined he implied. He looks at you and you think that he sees you. You think he listens to you but he just hears you. He draws cartoon hearts on your dirty dishes and you start to believe it could be that easy. That you could just meet somebody and begin your happy ever after. It couldn’t be that easy. Nothing ever is.<br /><br />And you wonder how it happened. How you woke up one day with your heart caving in. How he threw you away like a discarded syringe. Use once and destroy. You pray that the hours will be more merciful. That the hands on the clock would start telling time and stop measuring how long it’s been since you last saw his sullen eyes or heard his beautiful voice. You type furiously into your phone praying for the courage to hit <i>Send</i>. You draft questions laced with accusations. Where are you? Why did you go? Did you really love me? You are asking the wrong questions. Or rather you are asking the wrong person. Where did <i>I</i> go? Where have <i>I</i> gone? Why didn’t I love myself?<br /><br />And you wonder how it happened. How you thought the world would stop spinning the day he walked away. How you couldn’t find the strength to put one leg in front of the other. And then that leg in front of the other. But the world kept its axis and you, too, found the courage to crawl. You prop yourself up and you start to walk. You gain momentum and you run. You close your eyes and you fly. You thought it would all end the day he said goodbye. But it didn’t. It couldn’t. Maybe you don’t know your own strength.<br /><br />And you wonder how it happened. How you could love someone so deeply, so irrevocably one instance and feel nothing the next. How you see him one day and it doesn’t feel like anything. You put a hand over your heart and find it’s still beating, still keeping tune to a song. Except this time he doesn’t know the words anymore. This time, he cannot hum along. And so you <strike>look</strike> stare at him. You pick at the scab that was your love. You will him to look back at you. And he does. But he pretends he doesn’t see you. And he keeps walking away and that should wound you. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t. <i>Why doesn’t it hurt anymore?</i><br /><br />And here’s how it happened. Here’s how you walked away from the car crash that was your life. Science tells you that the heart is the hardest working muscle in your body. That it pumps out 71 ounces of blood every beat. That it could beat three billion times in a person’s life. That even as you weep, you sleep, you breathe, you eat, it beats and it beats and it beats.<br /><br />That’s 71 ounces of <i>I could have loved you</i>. Thump thump.<br /><br />That’s 71 ounces of <i>he’s not coming back.</i> Thump thump.<br /><br />That’s 71 ounces of <i>I don’t love you anymore.</i> Thump thump.<br /><br />That’s 71 ounces of <i>I choose to love myself.</i> Thump thump. <i>Instead.</i> Thump thump.<br /><br />That’s 71 tiny ounces out of the 213,000,000,000 ounces you’ll ever pump out in your entire life. Thump thump thump thump thump.<br /><br />And so you watch him walk away. Like he did five months ago. Like nothing ever happened. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. And you move on with the rest of your day because it doesn’t sting as much or at all. It doesn’t hurt anymore. He’s just a boy you loved who left you, just a mistake among many, many, many wonderful mistakes. You plug your earphones in and listen to a woman singing words she pulled right out of your 71 ounces.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Dreams are dreams,<br />Will alas come true?<br />Skies will clear,<br />Leaving me bright and blue. <br />I will raise my glass to my heart and say<br />“Here’s to tomorrow, not yesterday.”</i></div><br />My heart proved stronger than your love. Here’s to tomorrow, not yesterday.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: All Saints | Dreams (2000)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-21144546299987121282015-02-16T00:34:00.002+08:002015-02-24T11:34:27.675+08:00hello, my name is<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-H87f1M9akkw/VODJIso3zsI/AAAAAAAAY5s/K7XaNYCdx_k/s800/WP_20150209_005_.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" src="http://pleer.com/browser-extension/files/79947608sJy.mp3" style="width: 102%;" type="audio/mp3"></audio><br /></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-j6WLAHEFJcE/VODJIzhkX0I/AAAAAAAAY5w/MbUM9Xjx2A8/s800/amaut.jpg" style="background: none; border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0px;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />So I made a couple of these over the weekend. It's a sampler with seven of my favorite stories. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to get published. Here's hoping that this is a step in the right direction.<br /><br />If you want a copy, please fill <a href="http://goo.gl/forms/FrdIvDpyWz">this</a> out and I'll get in touch with you.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: American Authors | Best Day Of My Life (2014)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-53357889730118948262015-01-23T09:04:00.000+08:002015-02-04T03:16:42.399+08:00on remembering the firsts<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-6sD2lxnrs10/VMMH0BbUnoI/AAAAAAAAY0k/ls3SgtJw-R8/s800/WP_20150103_002.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" src="http://dl3.farskids602.com/Mass/93/07/21/Taylor%20Swift%20-%20Out%20Of%20The%20Woods.mp3" style="width: 102%;" type="audio/mp3"></audio><br /></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-EBtGiiK-oAs/VMLoSMdvxoI/AAAAAAAAYy4/akNHRn1QUNg/s800/Taylor-Swift-1989-Deluxe-2014-1200x1200-300x300.png" style="background: none; border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0px;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b><a name="1" href="#2" style="color:#000000">I</a></b> find myself thinking about the early days frequently. Mostly, the scenes come back to me in flashes – that tiny macchiato I ordered for you by mistake, the swollen bits of lamb swimming in garlic and soy sauce, the beads of sweat that glistened on your forehead as I beat you in pool hockey, that first stolen kiss in the crisp, November air – they string together like tiny beads of light. And I remember thinking about them on the bus back to Manila. My fingers run through these memories the way a kid brushes over an old scar. You are sleeping right next to me, your shoulders hunched up in the cold. I adjust the AC, put my jacket over you, and try to catch up on too many long, looming sleepless nights.<br /><br /><b><a name="2" href="#3" style="color:#000000">NEVER</a></b> thought something so sweet could become so sour but we sure knew how to hurt each other. Those moments flash back too – that night I told you I was giving up, that time you took our picture off the wall, the hurtful bullshit we said and did to each other – they scratch my skin as they zoom past. And I’m sorry I gave up. I’m sorry I tried to run away from you. When you’re in a shithole, all you can think about is climbing out and pushing through. You never stop to think that maybe you’re not alone in all of it. I wish I had seen you right there with me, grasping through the darkness because neither of us knew it could get so bad. But you never thought about leaving me. I’m sorry I did. I’m sorry I thought that I could stop loving you. That I will stop loving you. Or that maybe, I had found a way. Maybe I<br /><br /><b><a name="3" href="#4" style="color:#000000">STOPPED</a></b>. I didn’t. <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2014/11/on-future-and-past.html" target="_blank">That</a> was a lie. Through the awkward silences, the passive aggressive shit we’d do to each other, through the stolen embraces while you slept and the nasty things I said but didn’t mean, a part of me held on to you. When you stopped talking to me, it felt like I lost more than a lover. I felt like I lost myself. You’ve become such a big part of who I am that at times, I wonder where you end and I begin. I knew I would never be the same. I was hollow most of the day. I walked around with empty eyes and a heavy heart. The only time I felt whole again was when I saw you. And though you looked back at me like you were about to scream bloody murder, I knew I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I knew I’d rather be in an empty house with you than anywhere in the world by myself.<br /><br /><b><a name="4" href="#5" style="color:#000000">LOVING</a></b> you again was easy. It was like putting an old sweater on. Maybe we needed a trip to remind us why we fell in love in the first place. Or maybe we would’ve found our way back eventually anyway. Either way, once the debris had settled and we’d both run out of horrible things to say, I felt your warm, familiar fabric as it embraced my longing skin. That first night you held me even though I knew you were livid with me, I heard your breaths draw deep and sharp. It was like you you were trying really hard to push me away. But you gave up. You couldn’t. Just like me, you understood that on some cosmic level, we would always end up with each other. Thank you for truly seeing me. I still remember those first tentative kisses, the way your fingers felt like tiny little firecrackers, that night you held me again and I cried so hard I had to hang the pillows dry the next day. It felt like I was at the end of a long journey and in your arms, I had somehow found myself back home.<br /><br /><b><a name="5" href="#6" style="color:#000000">YOU</a></b> were, you are, you will always be my life’s greatest adventure. As we made our way back to the city, the sleepy bus lights forging through the darkness, I think about the many firsts we’ve had – first date, first cup of coffee, first kiss, first time we made love. Then I add a couple of new ones – our first big fight, our first breakup, the first time we got back together, the first time that didn’t work out, the first time it actually did, the first time it felt like we’d finally figured things out – these all go into the box of memories we’ll open when we’re old and gray. I know I don’t say it much and I sure as hell don’t know how to show it half the time but <b>it’s all there in the firsts.</b> I didn’t need to fall back in love with you <a name="6" href="#1">because</a><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Taylor Swift | Out of the Woods (2014)</span><br /><hr /><b>HELLO 2015!</b> So I was late for my own challenge. Sorry about that. Obviously, life got in the way. I spent the New Year's figuring out what I wanted to do with my life and rebuilding bridges I haphazardly burned down in my last crisis. I promise to take better care of this space this year <i>(and lose weight, quit smoking, be a better person, yadda yadda yadda)</i> I hope you all had a great New Year's!<br /><hr /><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CJv6HX5ck18/T59SIYsKBFI/AAAAAAAAHs4/hh3Oqjb5YJw/s800/footer.png" height="50" style="background-repeat: no-repeat;" valign="bottom" width="660"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://roundtablechallenge.blogspot.com/2015/01/xiii-resurrection.html" target="_blank"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Resurrection</i>, January 2015</span></a></div></td></tr></tbody></table><b>This Month's Roster</b><br /><ul><li><b>SPLICE's </b><a href="http://splicinganddicing.blogspot.com/2015/01/i-living.html" target="_blank">I, The Living</a> </li><li><b>Jay Calicdan's</b> <a href="http://jaysquirkyworld.blogspot.com/2015/01/jeopardy.html" target="_blank">Jeopardy</a></li><li><b>Mugen's</b> <a href="http://daybreakembers.blogspot.com/2015/01/grand-theft-generation.html" target="_blank">Grand Theft Generation</a></li><li><b>The Angel's</b> <a href="http://theangeldaniel.blogspot.com/2015/01/closeted.html" target="_blank">Closeted</a></li><li><b>wanderingcommuter's</b> <a href="http://wanderingcommuter.blogspot.com/2015/01/how-i-manage-my-own-quarter-life-crisis.html" target="_blank">how i manage my own quarter life crisis</a></li><li><b>D's</b> <a href="http://chasing-eloquence.blogspot.com/2015/01/alive.html" target="_blank">Alive</a></li><li><b>citybuoy's</b> on remembering the firsts</li><li><b>Aris'</b> <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2015/01/bagong-simula.html" target="_blank">Bagong Simula</a></li><li><b>Orange's</b> <a href="http://orangewit.blogspot.com/2015/01/i-resurrection.html" target="_blank">I, Resurrection</a></li></ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-2595833632524117422014-12-08T10:05:00.001+08:002015-02-03T01:37:08.169+08:00on how you should remember me<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-sGxZbJVnYgE/VIUE3g7ukHI/AAAAAAAAYuM/R6vTUJv_3aI/s800/marco.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" src="http://www.thestatenislandboys.com/Doo_Wop_song_of_the_day/Songs/w/w/Wildflower%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20Sheryl%20Crow.mp3" style="width: 102%;" type="audio/mp3"></audio><br /></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZfsZ6jK_RqI/VIUEsbnc1yI/AAAAAAAAYuE/hzktb5WCcV4/s800/wildflower.JPG" style="background: none; border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0px;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />My father once taught me a secret. He said if you pressed an ear against a shell's hollow side, you could hear wave upon wave crashing upon the shore. And I always felt there was such beauty in that simple fact – the hollow never forgets where it's been. The ocean is forever alive if you listen closely. This is how I remember you. <br /><br />You can tell me about the science of it all, about how they're just sound waves bouncing off walls, mimicking the sound of the tide. But if you really think about the beauty of the common conch, you'd understand that all beautiful things must die. Maybe it was alive once. Maybe it even moved. One summer, a lonely crab came upon it. She dusted him off and made him brand new. They were inseparable. They were happy. But then she moved on.<br /><br />A fortune teller once told me that in my past life, I was happy. They called me California because you couldn't see anything but the sunlight when I was in the room. It's such a far cry from the man I am today. Some days, I question if I can ever be truly happy. Maybe the soul can only hold so much laughter and I've used all mine up.<br /><br />What if I told you I was hollow? That you could love me all you want but all you'll get at most is your own voice echoing. Would you leave? <br /><br />If you pick me up and press an ear to my heart, you will not hear the ocean singing. At first it will seem like nothing, just random beats of blood pulsing through my veins. But if you close your eyes and you picture who I was in your mind's eye, you will hear California's laughter.<br /><br />The seashell echoes where it once was. This is how I want you to remember me.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Sheryl Crow | Wildflower (2005)<br />Photo: <a href="http://marco-art.deviantart.com/art/The-last-trip-168278020">The last trip</a></span><br /><hr /><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CJv6HX5ck18/T59SIYsKBFI/AAAAAAAAHs4/hh3Oqjb5YJw/s800/footer.png" height="50" style="background-repeat: no-repeat;" valign="bottom" width="660"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://roundtablechallenge.blogspot.com/2014/12/xii-california.html" target="_blank"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><i>California</i>, December 2014</span></a></div></td></tr></tbody></table><b>This Month's Roster</b><br /><ul><li><b>R. Burnett Baker's</b> <a href="http://efficientagony.blogspot.com/2014/12/round-table-challenge-prompt-cali.html" target="_blank">Cali-(k)nights</a></li><li><b>citybuoy's</b> on how you should remember me</li><li><b>boyinwolfsclothing's</b> <a href="http://thebettertojudgeyouwith.wordpress.com/2014/12/08/flight-aversion/" target="_blank">Flight aversion</a></li><li><b>The Angel's</b> <a href="http://theangeldaniel.blogspot.com/2014/12/weekend.html" target="_blank">Weekend</a></li><li><b>D's</b> <a href="http://chasing-eloquence.blogspot.com/2014/12/melchor.html" target="_blank">Melchor</a></li><li><b>LoF's</b> <a href="http://sampaloctoc.blogspot.com/2014/12/california-challenge.html" target="_blank">California, A Challenge</a></li><li><b>Atty. Mico's</b> <a href="http://www.lost-923.blogspot.com/2014/12/redemption.html" target="_blank">Redemption</a></li><li><b>Aris's</b> <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2014/12/california-dreaming.html" target="_blank">California Dreaming</a></li></ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-70167670593060604722014-12-01T12:26:00.000+08:002015-02-02T13:14:45.413+08:00on conversations at 2am<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-2XDVAxXFl2I/VHvnlE8kmcI/AAAAAAAAYto/ko17i8BTkqU/s800/WP_20141201_011.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" src="http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/110680543/stream?client_id=b45b1aa10f1ac2941910a7f0d10f8e28" style="width: 102%;" type="audio/mp3"></audio><br /></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Zczi6o2OC_s/VHvnkxx090I/AAAAAAAAYtk/lly3-j_WzTo/s800/songsto.jpg" style="background: none; border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0px;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />"O eto, maganda. Anong mas gugustuhin mo? Yung mahal ka niya or yung mahal mo siya?"<br /><br />"Siyempre yung mahal ako. Vain ako, bakit ba?"<br /><br />"Ako, mas bet ko yung ako yung nagmamahal. Okay na yun. Di naman to pamasahe na dapat sinusuklian."<br /><br />"Naku becks! Mahirap yan. Mahal na ang pasustento ngayon no. Rubber shoes, autoload, pati college scholarship, kasama na dapat! Tapos malalaman mo, di naman pala siya seryoso. Parang siopao love yan. Akala mo special, ayun pala bola-bola lang."<br /><br />"Ha ha! Tapos ikaw naman tong asa-dong asado."<br /><br />"Kurek! Eh eto. Ano ang mas masakit: yung maghiwalay kayo na in love na in love pa kayo or yung marerealize niyong unti-unti na palang nawala?"<br /><br />"Naku, mahirap din yan."<br /><br />"Wala ka namang ibang alam kundi <i>mahirap yan</i>! Ambag ambag din naman tayo, teh."<br /><br />"Eh sa mahirap nga talaga. Ikaw kaya mauna."<br /><br />"K fine. Ako siguro, yung in love pa kayo. Kasi malamang sa malalang may dahilan naman kaya kayo maghihiwalay diba?"<br /><br />"Eh…&nbsp;minsan kasi yung mga gumaganyan, parang trip lang nila gumawa ng gulo eh. Kulang lang ng conflict sa life ba kaya ayun."<br /><br />"Huy hindi a! Malay mo di lang talaga tama yung panahon."<br /><br />"May bagyo?"<br /><br />"…or yung love niyo naman talaga ang isa't isa pero parang may mali lang talaga."<br /><br />"Ay trut. Alam ko yan. Sige na nga. Ikaw na tama."<br /><br />"Suko agad? Agad agad?"<br /><br />"Yezterday."<br /><br />"Magaling magaling. Eh ikaw ba? Ano ang mas masakit para sayo?"<br /><br />"Siguro yung… ma-cesarean sa likod. Ikaw kaya, padaanin ko yung sanggol dun. Tignan natin kung di ka magsisisigaw."<br /><br />"Ha ha! Baliw! Yung totoo."<br /><br />"Teka… siguro yung pangalawa. Yung unti-unti kayong nag-fall out of love. Parang kanser kasi yan eh. Dahan-dahan kang itetegi. Masakit yun."<br /><br />"Nagka-kanser ka na noon?"<br /><br />"Tanga!"<br /><br />"Eh ano?"<br /><br />"Basta. Alam mo na yun…"<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><br />Ano ang mas masakit: yung maghiwalay kayo na in love na in love pa kayo or yung marerealize niyong unti-unti na palang nawala? Wala namang nagsabi sa 'kin na may mas masakit pa pala dun sa dalawang yun. Pinaka-masakit yung kapit ka ng kapit, mag-isa ka nalang palang lumalaban. Tang ina. Ang sakit magising one day na marerealize mong mag-isa ka nalang palang nagmamahal.&nbsp;<span style="color: white;">Paalam na, mahal ko. Pasensiya na't hanggang dito nalang ako.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Aiza Seguerra | Ako Lang Ang Nagmahal (2013)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-6819813144766089842014-11-26T12:01:00.000+08:002015-02-04T03:20:14.213+08:00on the future and the past<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-S-DUYhPbTmo/VHVMJByxr3I/AAAAAAAAYtA/NL1AvCeT7v0/s800/cebu.gif" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" src="https://www.tumblr.com/audio_file/citybuoy/103608019301/tumblr_nfmn7vL3451r1wkm9?play_key=e6ba8f023e92bbb5aaf06052cd0c6551&amp;tumblelog=citybuoy&amp;post_id=103608019301" type="audio/mp3" style="width: 102%;"></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-u2BDL4rMXME/VHVMJF49U7I/AAAAAAAAYtE/JS8YyMywrvU/s800/heavyweight.jpeg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />To my former lover's future lover,<br /><br />You don't know me. At least I don't think you do. You may have seen my initials on a book you borrowed from him. You may have seen my clumsy twenty-six-year old handwriting on an old birthday card. You may have seen me in a doodle in an aging coffee shop planner. But you still won't know me. You can't. Because the man you love holds many secrets and by now, I think I may have become one of them. <br /><br />So before the hours erase everything like tidal waves rearranging the shore, allow me to tell you everything you need to know. You must understand what happened between us and know that I'm not trying to take him from you. This is not a bent knee pleading for you to return him to me. All this is is a stern reminder for you to <b>never let him go.</b> Not a day goes by where I don't regret taking the first feeble footsteps away from the man you now call your own.<br /><br />You can ask about who I was or what I meant to him. He'll tell you my name. He'll tell you where we met. If you play it cool (don't push too hard), maybe he'll even tell you how long we were together. But he'll never tell you how I was his favorite person. He won't say how I once meant the world to him or that at one point, I was the axis in which his entire life revolved. He won't tell you, he can't tell you that although I am but a fading memory now, at one point his heart was an anchor and I was the vast expanse of the ocean floor.<br /><br />You can ask if he told me the same things he's telling you now. He'll tell you about the laughs we had and the tears we shed in the three years we were together. He'll tell you your love is different, that it's nothing like what we had back then. He won't tell you about the moonlight on the night we first met or about how we wound our watches back three hours so we wouldn't have to part ways. He won't tell you about the kisses he stole from me that night or how he tapped the cab twice as it drove away. Those images were ours although we let them go that night we broke our promises to stay true to each other forever.<br /><br />You can ask if he held me like he holds you now and he'll tell you that your fingers lock completely with his. Like jigsaw puzzle pieces thought separated for years, the minute your skin touched his felt like coming home. But he won't tell you about how I once scrubbed my fingers so hard, my knuckles started to bleed. About how I felt my palms were never clean enough, never white enough to graze his. I stopped trying to put our pieces together because I knew I had to let him go. I did it so he could find you.<br /><br />You can ask if he loves you more than he loved me. He'll tell you that meeting you was like ending a long journey – that I was a layover but you were always the final stop. That we had some great times but in the end, he was just preparing for the time he was to spend with you. What he won't say is that at one point, it felt like we were facing a million sunrises and sunsets hand in hand. He won't tell you the names of our kids, the dreams we both shared, or the number of hydrangeas we were going to plant in our backyard. He will tell you that I was the mistake that made him see how right your love was. But he will never tell you about that night I whispered the exact same words in his ear.<br /><br />You can ask why we broke up and he'll tell you it was because I needed too much, because I demanded too many things from him. He will tell you I was selfish, that I was needy, and unkind. He won't tell you about the nights I stayed up watching him sleep, wondering what I did in the past to deserve such a gentle, perfect man. He can't tell you about moments I spent staring at my reflection in the mirror, wondering what he saw in me, why he chose me out of all the strangers in the crowd. He won't tell you how I questioned his love because I didn't feel I deserved it. He can't tell you I felt unworthy because he didn't know. I didn't tell him. But I am telling you now.<br /><br />And so when you hear about me, see my face in a Timehop or a passing glimmer in his eye, I want you to know that if I could have loved him the way you do, I wouldn't need to write you this letter. Please take good care of him. He was and always will be my life's biggest regret. Love him with all your heart. Love him the way I never could. And though you owe me nothing, please love him all your life for me.<br /><br />All the best,<br /><br />N.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Rachael Yamagata | Has It Happened Yet? (2012)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-61306986537618962014-11-20T10:26:00.000+08:002015-02-02T13:14:12.041+08:00on how it's not in our stars<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-LidHQpoI1bA/VG1Qj_tJo1I/AAAAAAAAYsg/CjirNIqrqvM/s800/haleakala.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://dancelist.net/_uploadmusic/201201/19121254nicole_scherzinger_-_amenjena.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-OWV8szEjHZg/VG1QfZ4nt1I/AAAAAAAAYsY/EBCxZKdpkZg/s800/amenjena.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />My lover is a Gemini. On a whim, he came to me one day. He picked me up, dusted me off, and said that he loved me. Truly, wholly, and without tiring. I believed his persuasion. I trusted the frailty of his words. He was such a puzzle, warm and alive one minute and deathly cold the next. I wrestled plain in his conflicting hands. I learned to listen to the butterflies in my belly. He moved so quickly, breezing into my life and without warning, rushing out of it. Nobody told me the butterflies were just on loan. He took them with him when he walked away, leaving nothing but a hollow of wasps inside me.<br /><br />My lover is a Gemini but I wish he was a Leo. I want him to find the courage to see past my faults, to purify me in the fire of his love. To hold me when I am afraid. To be there in the morning when I wake up. I want to drown in his discourse, to bask in the light of his idealism and arrogance. I want to hear about his day, however trivial or mundane. I want him to be open to me, to be strong enough to tell me when I cross the line. But I'm just wishing on stars and a Leo, he is not.<br /><br />I wish he was a Libra. I want him to be fair. Like a photograph that falls off the pages of a book, his memory finds me in the strangest places. How do you miss somebody who was never yours? How do you learn to forget hands that have never held you or lips you have never kissed? I want to weave my words around his heart, to find out what made him change his mind so quickly. I want him to be just to me. But I'm just wishing on stars and a Libra, he is not.<br /><br />I wish he was a Cancer. I want to be there for his famous mood swings. I want to understand his vulnerability, to warm my hands on the embers of his temper. I want to have long, tedious conversations about the frost on the window pane or the politics of living in an ant farm. I want him to be jealous, to wear his heart out on his sleeve. I want him to shake me when my heart wanders, to kiss me deeply to remind me why we got together in the first place. I want his desire to consume him like a fever. But I'm just wishing on stars and a Cancer, he is not.<br /><br />I wish he was a Capricorn. I want to fall asleep on his stable chest. I want to feel my head rising and falling as he breathes me in. I want him to be loyal, for his eyes to never stray far away from me. I want his love to be as vast as a net. I could leap from the highest highs with eyes closed, arms outstretched. If cats knew they would always land on their feet, would they still be afraid to jump? I want my lover to catch me when I fall. But I'm just wishing on stars and a Capricorn, he is not.<br /><br />But above all these, I know there is one wish that I would kill to make – I wish that love was in our stars. Because I know it isn't. Because I know that you're gone. But that hasn't stopped me from searching for your face in every crowd. It hasn't stopped me from leaning on the frailty of your words, on the butterflies in my gut. And so with the courage of the lion,the fairness of the scales, the passion of the crab, and the stability of the goat, I search the night sky for a shooting star. When I see one, I swear to God I will get down on my knees, shout your name, and wish that your footsteps would one day lead you back to me. I wish you would come back to me. I wish we had different stars.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Nicole Scherzinger | AmenJena (2011)<br />Photo: <a href="http://higherperspective.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/391_1stars_above_haleakala__haleakala_national_park__maui__hi.jpg">Stars Above Haleakala</a></span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-85422806067914533062014-11-06T10:40:00.000+08:002015-02-02T23:23:54.038+08:00on the games we play<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-sYBRkBAsHSo/VFrcWd7hGMI/AAAAAAAAYrE/fDJdWeqFlTo/s800/IMG_7804_.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_la4sk13kMG1qbqrawo1.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_la4sk13kMG1qbqrawo1.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/--R2OpHf7tRk/VFrcWaR9CbI/AAAAAAAAYrI/YpkYic0u_z0/s800/vanessa.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i>"Come play with me,"</i> he beckoned from a park bench. He had careless hair and a crooked smile. He had one of those old-time chess boards in front of him with all the pieces lined up for a duel. His words wound up the key to my heart. Like a wind-up toy, my gears buzzed with life anew. I didn't stand a chance.<br /><br />I was lost and ripe for an epiphany. I looked around to make sure he was talking to me. He welcomed me with a smile and motioned for me to sit. I sat across him, my messenger bag sliding from my shoulder to the grass. A few strands of hair covered his eyes as he aligned his pawns across an imaginary line.<br /><br /><i>"Do you know how to play?"</i> he asked.<br /><br /><i>"A little, I guess."</i> I lied. I was the class champion in my senior year but I'd gotten rusty throughout the years. <i>"What are we playing for?"</i><br /><br /><i>"Oh! A gambling man, I see. Well, what do you think?"</i><br /><br /><i>"We can play for quarters. Let's keep it friendly?"</i><br /><br />He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it away from his forehead. He surveyed the pieces carefully, weighing the pros and cons of his battle with a stranger. He looked up, a quiet flame in his eyes and asked me, <i>"Why don't we play for love?"</i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><br />He explained that chess was a lot like love. All the while, his long, graceful fingers danced across the board with ease. Within a few moves, he'd captured a bishop and one of my knights. I barely escaped with his rook and a pawn.<br /><br />His queen did most of his bidding, a dangerous but effective way to play. <i>"The queen is like the mind,"</i> he told me. <i>"She can move any number of squares and in any direction. She does what she wants. She temps, she taunts, but most of all, she can </i>seize<i>."</i> His queen moved closer towards my pieces as it devoured my last bishop.<br /><br /><i>"Your mind is very powerful then."</i> I surveyed the board and saw he was winning.<br /><br /><i>"The king,"</i> he continued. <i>"is your heart. You must protect it at all costs. The whole ship could go down but you must keep him locked away."</i> With one move, he had his queen at a straight angle to my king. <i>"Check."</i><br /><br />I quickly moved my king out of harm's way. This boy was a hustler and he had both my heart and curiosity piqued.<br /><br /><i>"And what about you? Has anyone claimed </i>your <i>king?"</i> I asked. I began a relay to capture his queen, my knight setting up a trap on the northeast corner of the board.<br /><br /><i>"There'll be no talk of that,"</i> he said, his crooked smile on full display. <i>"Don't ask questions you can't afford the answers to."</i><br /><br /><i>"So you've got a boyfriend. I've got one too. We're just playing chess."</i><br /><br />He looked me straight in the eye and for a second, I could see a glimmer of a little boy drowning in those dark brown pools. <i>Help me,</i> he cried out. In my chest, I could feel the weight of a million promises starting to break.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><br />We had major casualties on both sides of the board. Towards the end, he was left with a pawn, a knight, a queen, and his king. I had a rook, two pawns, my king but no queen. He'd captured my literal and metaphorical mind in five swift moves. We both knew the game was coming to an end. The gears of my wind-up were slowing and tiring as each second ticked by.<br /><br /><i>"See this is why you have to be careful,"</i> he warned me. <i>"You have to stay alert and keep thinking. Otherwise, you'd be left with your heart out in the open."</i> He tapped my king lightly, his touch rocking the piece gently on its felt base. His words started to sound more calculated, his tone growing colder by the minute. <br /><br /><i>"Maybe I wanted it this way. Maybe love is about abandoning logic for the sentimental. About throwing caution to the wind, devil may care."</i><br /><br /><i>"But no one wins by being careless. It takes skill, not luck, to be victorious."</i><br /><br /><i>"In chess, maybe. But in love?"</i> His eyes were transfixed on the board, calculating each and every step. I wanted to reach down into his heart, wondering who could have damaged it so severely that one would have to press an ear to it to hear its mellow ticking.<br /><br /><i>"There's got to be some merit to keeping your head in the game,"</i> he said. <i>"No one's ever died from a broken mind but many have fallen with a broken heart."</i><br /><br /><i>"So you'd rather think about love than just feel it? I don't think you can call that love."</i><br /><br /><i>"What do you call that then?"</i><br /><br /><i>"I don't know."</i> I told him. <i>"The name escapes me now but I know that's not love."</i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><br />In the end, his queen took my last rook in three moves. My heart, defenseless, was suddenly his for the taking. Within seconds, the game was over. <i>Checkmate.</i> He shook my hand and congratulated me on a game well played.<br /><br /><i>"You said you only played a little. I think you lied."</i> His voice sounded cocky but his face betrayed a tenderness that lay beneath.<br /><br /><i>"Well you said we were playing for love. Were you lying, too?"</i><br /><br /><i>"I don't know."</i><br /><br /><i>"Well now you have my love. What are you going to do with it?"</i><br /><br />He shrugged and shook his head. We sat there in silence for a moment then he got up and placed all the pieces clumsily back into the box. Soon, imaginary appointments were made as we both rushed to opposite sides of the world. It was too late when I noticed that a lonely chessman had wandered into my bag. I reached in for it, the crown digging hollow pits into my palm.<br /><br />It was his heart.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><br /><i>I don't think you can call that love,</i> I told him and so he asked me for its name. It escaped me then but as soon as his figure left my horizon, the words came rushing into me like a wayward breeze. It was <i>Self-Preservation.</i><br /><br />I still keep that wandering piece with me, a prayer that one day we'll meet again. The grinding gears in my wind-up spin one last time as it slows to a halt. In my mind's eye, I still see him on that dusty park bench – careless hair, crooked smile, chessmen ready for battle. <i>Come play with me,</i> he'd beckon and these four little words would wind me up once again.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Vanessa Carlton | Pretty Baby (2002)</span><br /><hr /><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CJv6HX5ck18/T59SIYsKBFI/AAAAAAAAHs4/hh3Oqjb5YJw/s800/footer.png" height="50" style="background-repeat: no-repeat;" valign="bottom" width="660"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://roundtablechallenge.blogspot.com/2014/11/manifesto-xi-wind-up.html" target="_blank"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Wind-Up</i>, November 2014</span></a></div></td></tr></tbody></table><b>This Month's Roster</b><br /><ul><li><b>Mugen's&nbsp;</b><a href="http://daybreakembers.blogspot.com/2014/11/minsan-lang-ikaw-bata.html" target="_blank">Minsan Lang Ikaw Bata</a></li><li><b>LoF's</b> <a href="http://sampaloctoc.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-wind-up-challenge.html" target="_blank">The Wind-Up, A Challenge</a></li><li><b>Dindin Magada's</b> <a href="http://chasing-eloquence.blogspot.com/2014/11/cheese-stick-pesto-or-classic-pandesal.html" target="_blank">Cheese Stick Pesto or Classic Pandesal</a></li><li><b>red the mod's</b> <a href="http://red-isthenewblack.blogspot.com/2014/11/rewind-up.html" target="_blank">(re)wind-up</a></li><li><b>NOX's </b><a href="http://backward-forward.blogspot.com/2014/11/i-dont-know-how-to-start-this-he-said.html" target="_blank">Wind-Up</a></li><li><b>the geek's</b> <a href="http://iamtheclosetgeek.blogspot.com/2014/11/wind-up.html" target="_blank">wind-up</a></li><li><b>Atty. Mico's</b> <a href="http://www.lost-923.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-last-trip-to-yokohama.html" target="_blank">The Last Trip To Yokohama</a></li><li><b>citybuoy's</b> on the games we play</li><li><b>boyinwolfsclothing's</b> <a href="http://thebettertojudgeyouwith.wordpress.com/2014/11/06/never-surrender/" target="_blank">Never surrender</a></li><li><b>Désolé Boy's</b> <a href="http://www.desoleboy.com/2014/11/randy.html" target="_blank">Randy</a></li><li><b>Aris'</b> <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2014/11/de-susi.html" target="_blank">De-Susi</a></li><li><b>The Angel's</b> <a href="http://theangeldaniel.blogspot.com/2014/11/denouement.html" target="_blank">denouement</a></li><li><b>One Spoony Bard's</b> <a href="http://thespiralprince.blogspot.com/2014/11/on-tenses.html" target="_blank">on tenses</a></li></ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-43872057889791368992014-11-02T04:33:00.000+08:002015-02-02T13:13:50.103+08:00on time<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-h_Qlhhjukew/VFU-D23IayI/AAAAAAAAYpg/E6RzIMvXON8/s800/WP_20140607_08_44_49_Pro__.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvp00vGOTL1qey6x0o1.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvp00vGOTL1qey6x0o1.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-botcUBzD5Bw/VFVBAoRT1VI/AAAAAAAAYp8/nRps8gc4hLw/s800/miles.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>It's a Thursday in 2011.</b> I'm gonna be late for work but I don't really care. I'm finally going to meet you. You emerge from the fog and into my life. You take my breath away. We have dinner and then coffee and then you walk me to my cab. <i>I had a lovely evening,</i> I said when what I meant was <i>you look like the man I imagined I'd be with for the rest of my life.</i><br /><br /><b>It's a Friday in 2012.</b> They say the world is ending in a few months and though I'm not a prayerful person, last night I got down on my knees and asked for a little more time with you. You tell me you're off work early and you could spend the weekend with me. You arrive shortly after dinner, melted strawberry sundaes in your hands, and you tell me you've missed me like the sea misses the shore. Like the breeze kisses bed sheets swaying, like the sunlight misses the sunburnt skin on my nape. Your backpack is bursting with clothes, the first few rays of the rest of our lives. I run to you, my heart fevered with a silent wish. <i>I know you said you can only stay till Sunday but you know, you can stay here forever. Like um, if you wanted to.</i><br /><br /><b>It's a Saturday in 2013.</b> The world did not end. Perhaps my prayers were heard. You've traded in your backpacks for suitcases. I now awaken each morning to your light snores, your stubbled chin, your all too familiar scent. I wish I could lay back and enjoy the comfort of your arms but the voices came back last night. <i>He's going to leave you,</i> they said. <i>You're not good enough for him.</i> There's always going to be someone wiser, someone younger, someone who's just a few notches above <i>kind</i>. I hold on to you, feel your breath on my cheek as I wait for the voices to fade away. This is a call to arms.<br /><br /><b>It's a Sunday in 2014.</b> You leave early in the morning. I could feel your exit in my bones as you walked away. <i>Where are you going?</i> I wanted to know but there were no words, no answers for a calloused heart. It is nighttime. You emerge from the darkness. You set down your things and you hold me. Your backpack bursts open as it hits the ground. I count five shirts, three briefs, and a fresh pair of pants. You <i>were </i>going to leave me. <i>What made you change your mind?</i> You tell me about the bus, about how each mile it set between us felt like a knife in your gut. You tell me about how you ran from the terminal back to our street, how the front door practically flew when you swung it open. Your left cheek twitches as you tell me how each step on the staircase felt like bloody murder. There are no apologies where there are no sins. You hold me and it feels like you've truly come home. <i>It feels like you've come home.</i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i>The sea teaches me love is a wish<br />not for safety but for destruction.<br />I am not ashamed to admit it:<br />I love you the way water loves.<br />Which is to say<br /></i>I wish the world were through with you,<i><br />so you could return to me ravaged, upon this shore:<br />a shell held tight inside my palm.</i><br /><br /><b>Gift, 2</b><br />J. Neil C. Garcia</div><br />You still look like the man I imagined I'd be with for the rest of my life. But it's a <a href="http://instagram.com/p/umle9DR3NV/" target="_blank">Sunday</a> and I'm not in love.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Rachael Yamagata | Miles On a Car (2011)<br />Poem: <a href="http://likhaan_online.tripod.com/08242001archivesite/lit7-3.html" target="_blank">Gift, 2</a></span><br /><span style="color: white;"><br /></span><span style="color: white;"><b>It's a Monday in 2064.</b> I am a fossil, the last embers of a love that burned brightly. We’ve weathered the storms – all 6,396 I made myself – and I'm sorry. I can't always say it for I fear the taste will soon seem pale to my lips but from the deepest corners of this ashen heart, I loved you. I love you. I will always love you.</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-58253864525911882152014-10-13T13:42:00.000+08:002015-02-02T13:13:18.871+08:00on grazed hearts<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2Wq4sl_IgiQ/VDtkTLwTLtI/AAAAAAAAYog/8sClAkQSVnU/s800/WP_20140927_08_45_05_Pro_.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://prostopleer.com/mobile/files/5280710IobX.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://prostopleer.com/mobile/files/5280710IobX.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-kXz1i2lfCzQ/VDtkTFRkMmI/AAAAAAAAYoc/KoeyNtFVAoI/s800/comehome.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i>"Anak, gising na,"</i> my mother beckoned from downstairs. I had been holed up in my room all weekend, trying not to let even the slightest ray of sunshine filter in. My heart was broken yet again. This month's suspect was a beautiful boy who thought he could love me. But just like all the others, my damage was too deep and too dark for his soothing words to heal and he left before I could even tell him how I really felt.<br /><br />It was hardly my first rodeo. I knew how these things went. Everywhere, people were holding hands and basking in love's ardent glow whereas I was still in my room in two-day old boxers. Maybe it's time for me to accept that it takes all sorts to run the world and as <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSFLZ-MzIhM">Kermit</a> put it, there are lovers, there are dreamers, and then there's me.<br /><br /><i>"Dali na. Tanghali na…"</i> she said, her voice getting louder and louder as she came closer. I could hear her steps on the wooden stairs, her slippers spelling the end of my self-imposed prison sentence. <i>"Tignan mo o. Ilang araw ka nang nakakulong diyan. Bangon na."</i><br /><br /><i>"Ma..."</i> I begged. <i>"Masama pakiramdam ko. Mamaya mo na ako guluhin."</i> I dug deeper into the covers, my head burying into my pillows. <br /><br />She put her hand on my forehead then on my neck, feeling for a fever. Seeing I was fine, her hand retreated to my shoulder, her touch tentative but reassuring. <i>"May problema ba? Wala ka namang lagnat. Baka sinat lang."</i> I did not answer. Maybe I couldn't. Maybe I didn't know where to start.<br /><br /><i>"Halika, tulungan mo ako mag-luto. Uuwi ngayon kuya mo. Ipagluto natin siya nung paborito niya." </i>When I was a boy, I would often help her out with some of the kitchen chores. As the runt in the family, Ma entrusted me with the most menial of tasks. My brothers picked up the groceries and fed the dogs whereas I chopped red onions and crushed garlic for her. <br /><br /><i>"Sige na...&nbsp;Please?"</i> She pulled away at the covers and instantly, I curled up like a caterpillar turned on its side. She placed her hand on my back, my undershirt damp from cold sweat. <br /><br /><i>"Basang basa na 'yang damit mo."</i> She walked towards the cabinet and brought out a fresh shirt and some shorts. <i>"Magpalit ka ng damit. Lalo kang magkakasakit niyan. Tara na."</i> She left me alone after that and I don't know if it was love or obligation that pushed me but I did what I was told.<br /><br />By the time I got to the kitchen, it was already a flurry of sounds, aromas, and spices. There were chunks of beef gently boiling in a pot. I could hear the sizzle of a roast chicken in the oven. There were vegetables of various cuts and sizes on the chopping board. Ma was on all fours reaching under the sink. Between the cramped space and old age, I could hear her muffled grunts as she reached for a pan.<br /><br /><i>"Ako na diyan, ma."</i> I offered. <i>"Baka mapano ka pa."</i> She dismissed me with a muffled <i>heh</i> under her breath but moved out of the way. I didn't have to be told which pan to bring out. I knew she was reaching for her favorite – the green non-stick with the deep scratches. It was a wedding gift from my grandmother and although it had aged badly, she still insisted on using it whenever she could.<br /><br /><i>"Ano ba 'to, ma. Palitan mo na ito."</i> I ran my hands through the pan's scratches, possibly from a too eager scourer or a misplaced silver utensil. <i>"Baka magka-cancer na tayo niyan o."</i><br /><br /><i>"Okay pa 'yan. Gumagana pa naman. Kaya may gasgas, kasi ginagamit. 'Di ba ganun naman lahat?"</i> I propped myself up on the kitchen counter as she pulled up a bar stool. I ran the pan under some running water as she freed a grilled eggplant of its skin. <i>"Kung 'di ginagamit e ano pang saysay niyan?"</i><br /><br /><i>"Pero ma, ang lalim na nito o. Palitan na natin. Ikaw din. Ikaw rin mahihirapan maghugas niyan. Sale ngayon sa </i>Landmark.<i> Daan tayo sa weekend, gusto mo?"</i><br /><br /><i>"'Wag na. Okay pa 'yan, pramis."</i> She placed her hand on my heart and I looked up in shock. <i>"Kaya may gasgas, kasi ginagamit. Kaya okay lang yan. Gumagana pa naman, diba? Eh ikaw, okay ka lang ba?"</i><br /><br />For a second, I considered telling her everything – my pain, my doubts, my fears about dying alone. But there was so much to say and so little time. I just wanted to relish the comfort of her touch. As soon as she let go of me, I knew we had somehow reached an understanding. It was as though she was telling me that she was on my side, that I still had love in the world even though it wasn't from the beautiful boy who broke my heart.<br /><br />Pans get scratched up. It's nothing to get embarrassed about. That's how you know they get used. But what about hearts? Lovers leave marks like a heavy scouring or a careless utensil. What happens when he leaves your heart banged up? Should you still wear the scars as proudly? <br /><br /><i>Yes,</i> my mother's touch told me. Because at least your heart still beats. Because at least you know you're not impervious to the pain. After everything, love always has and always will be a big gamble. Sometimes you win and it's like the world is on your side. But sometimes you lose and it's times like these when you're broke, you're broken, and you haven't moved from the space where he left you for two days – it's these moments where you have to come back to the one lover who has never forgotten.<br /><br /><i>"Salamat sa tulong mo, anak."</i> Ma said as we started cleaning up. <i>"Gustong gusto ko 'pag andito ka."</i> She came towards me, arms outstretched with an embrace. In all my weakness, I let her hold me until the longing inside me passed.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: OneRepublic and Sara Bareilles | Come Home (2007)<br />Post: <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/01/overheard.html">overheard</a></span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-44834619501278976852014-10-12T05:57:00.000+08:002015-02-02T13:15:34.445+08:00never was good with apologies but<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-UBqwnr7gX3Q/VDmmzzg8d7I/AAAAAAAAYn8/HBMoqzRPKhU/s800/haiku.gif" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://cdn.stereogum.com/files/mp3/Karen O - The Moon Song.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://cdn.stereogum.com/files/mp3/Karen O - The Moon Song.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-pD5hxwm_lBU/VDmm0NtWgWI/AAAAAAAAYoA/i3nvENdJWfE/s800/moon-song-karen-o-soundtrack-her-turkce-cevirisi.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Karen O | The Moon Song (2013)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-54194547071904502612014-10-05T02:33:00.000+08:002015-02-07T04:32:55.803+08:00on growing old<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-1qx2jm5B6r0/VDA7-LDxv4I/AAAAAAAAYlo/K37vjposhCE/s800/WP_20140928_05_53_17_Pro_.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://redmp3.ru/stream/11061857/pancho-s-lament-promise-me-this.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://redmp3.ru/stream/11061857/pancho-s-lament-promise-me-this.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-xiTECazj1XI/VDA5KxtQvlI/AAAAAAAAYlY/ZdFboTGglYo/s800/pancho-s-lament.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />If you ask me how we got here, I honestly would not know what to say. Like the sunset, it just crept up on us unsuspectingly. One minute, he and I were taking spontaneous trips to Batangas and watching exotic French movies at midnight, the next we were suffering through the silence of countless breakfasts and forgetting each other's birthdays. Three years can do that to you and on most days, I'm okay with that. There is some value to a stable relationship. But then there are days like today where I wonder whether it was time or was it romance that truly passed us by.<br /><br />And what kills me is he's a good man, that much I know. I could do so much worse. Wait, let me rephrase that. I have done so much worse. I've been lied to, cheated on, I've been hurt and all for what? The pursuit of a happy ever after? When I met him all those summers ago, I was a wounded bird with a broken wing. I was beginning to believe that happy ever afters only existed in fairy tales and cheesy Sunday movies. When my last lover left, he took so much more than my heart. He stripped me of my pride, my confidence, and my will. This brand new boy took one look at my heart and said <i>I could fix that. I could fix him.</i> And so I let him. It wasn't easy at first but through time and with his gentle heart, I learned to trust again. I learned to love again. He was the kindest man I had ever met and so we took our vows to grow old together. He with his gentle heart and I with my mended wing, we would get our happy ever after.<br /><br />Nobody tells you what happens after the couple rides off into the horizon and the screen fades to black. Let me tell you. What follows is a whole lot of… nothing.<br /><br />All that feels like a lifetime ago. These days, we hardly ever talk beyond the <i>how was your day</i>s and <i>what do you want for dinner</i>s – these questions disguise themselves as everyday pleasantries but I should have seen them for what they truly are. They are footsteps. Each question and its corresponding monotonous answer brought us closer and closer to silence, to complacent, to mundane.<br /><br />I've become increasingly good at keeping these thoughts at bay. But just when I've let my guard down, they crash into me with the impact of a bursting dam. Today, it finds me on a quiet Saturday morning, as plain as the last sixty-three. He lies sleeping beside me. His snoring stops, signaling he is about to wake. The curtains sway without tire as the aroma of breakfast wafts through from the neighbor's kitchen. I daydream of dried fish, scrambled eggs, and a love that will hold me till morning.<br /><br /><i>You're up early,</i> he says, mid yawn. <i>What time is it?</i><br /><br /><i>6:30? I'm not really sure.</i><br /><br /><i>Why are you up so early? It's the weekend. We should be sleeping. </i>He rolls over to my side of the bed to embrace me and I let him because that's what lovers are supposed to do.<br /><br /><i>I don't know. I couldn't get back to sleep.</i><br /><br /><i>Well, let's…</i> he continues incoherently. His silence was soon replaced by quiet little snores. We lay there, two spoons with mountains of space in between. Now how much of that space was on me, I didn't want to know. Because I couldn't afford to think about these things. I couldn't afford to lose my savior. I close my eyes, hoping the same slumber that took him would swallow me whole.<br /><br />He's a good man, that much I know. I could do so much worse. But now and then, you wonder how growing old together somehow turns into just plain growing old.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Pancho's Lament | Promise Me This (2000)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-61678598622669790322014-02-26T10:22:00.000+08:002015-01-27T03:56:56.657+08:00hello love<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-OwXC46GoYbc/Uw1OFa3_RRI/AAAAAAAAYU4/PkcIQEecE0E/s800/gingey.png" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://www.mjsbigblog.com/mp3/mine.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://www.mjsbigblog.com/mp3/mine.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-p-s7NqXFvRY/Uw1LDICm1HI/AAAAAAAAYSk/mC-bdMI5dnM/s800/mine.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="overflow: hidden; white-space: nowrap;"><b>There</b> was a man who couldn't understand the puzzle of life. But these <br /><b>are</b> his first words. <i>24 different pies under 24 different skies. Oh me oh<br /><b>no </b>I don't want to have no wife!</i> All the other words are pointless. His<br /><b>words</b> were only of kindness. The busy little witches cackled and spat at<br /><b> that </b>curiosity, suspecting wicked demons at play. <i>We've done all we<br /><b>could </b>but... </i>Her daughters all wept, tearing off robes and basking<br /><b> fully </b>nude under the moonlight. There was no way the sundial could<br /><b> express </b>the things they saw. <i>We're going to die soon,</i> he said. <i>Oh<br /><b>how </b>you'd like that for sure,</i> they replied. Hiding in the dark was a<br /><b> happy </b>little bear. His invisibility granted him many privileges. <i>You…<br /><b>you </b>don't understand what you're doing,</i> it said to them. <i>And they <br /><b>have </b>made me very afraid. </i>I didn't want to tell her she's all but<br /><b> made </b>it. That really wouldn't be fair to anyone, most especially to<br /><b> me </b>because I vowed to always be honest and never cruel to you. Of<br /><b> these </b>purple waves that are going to come crashing, How many will <br /><b> last </b>without proper nutrition and oxygen that they deserve? About<br /><b> two </b>days from dying of exhaustion? It's been too long, at least seven<br /><b> years</b>. It might have been too long.<br /><br /><b>I</b> could see all this happening from my dusty balcony. Perhaps I didn't <br /><b> look </b>too far ahead. Like ants under a magnifying glass, marching<br /><b> forward </b>as they plot their own destructions and deaths. And I know that<br /><b> to </b>do all this from such a vantage point may seem cruel. The liaison was<br /><b> spending </b>way too much money. Everybody needs time to go and explore<br /><b> the</b> things they really want, even if it is embezzling company funds. The <br /><b> rest</b> persist like animals do. We are guided by instinct and mouths fed,<br /><b> of</b> course. Off course as it may be, there will always be something in<br /><b> my</b> current situation that jars me. <i>That's life, my boy. That's just how<br /><b>life </b>is.</i> That's what my father told me and what his father told him. Mix<br /><b> with</b> everything you want. Wonder about the crazy things happening to<br /><b> you.</b> Then you'll get by just fine.<br /><br /><b> Happy </b>never grows old. She's the same white dog. On that iconic show's<br /><b> second </b>year, the old faithful pet was given a chance to speak. On their<br /><b> anniversary</b>, the producers sat her down for an interview. <i>I want<br /><b>my </b>family to remember that we are important</i>, she said. <i>I've shown<br /><b>love</b>. I never aged and I never died.</i> In reality, she was a puppet.<br /><br /><b> You </b>used to tell me these things when you were learning to play golf. You<br /><b> are </b>pretty strong yourself, though you know nothing could compare to <br /><b> the </b>funny way she collided with all of us. Or maybe we knew he was the<br /><b> best </b>at golf and we were better at other things. Like Monopoly? That<br /><b> thing</b> he said could make all our strengths better than our weaknesses. If<br /><b> that's</b> okay with you, we don't all have to be great at cooking. All we<br /><b> ever</b> do is eat crappy things, we say that it's okay and good. All it's ever<br /><b> been</b> is mediocre and lackluster. The fault? I don't know if it's yours or <br /><b> mine.</b> Maybe it's yours. Maybe it's mine. Or maybe, just maybe, it's ours.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Naya Rivera | Mine [Glee Cast Version] (2012)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-29802896383801299092014-02-03T10:55:00.001+08:002014-02-24T11:56:47.153+08:00ember cinema<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-vCyGJwdEp74/Uu8B3qQKprI/AAAAAAAAYNs/J0t4oHOfC5I/s800/night-kalayaan-2.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_lou1cbuoqT1qfzpwqo1.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_lou1cbuoqT1qfzpwqo1.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zEWFFU5OTfU/Uu8B3k7xSvI/AAAAAAAAYNw/_UmW-L4YbKw/s800/backtoblack.png" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Every now and then, I remember him. He's the kind of paramour whose memory creeps up on you when you're sitting alone at a random café, thoughts drifting into space. The fires have long been extinguished and yet in the deepest corners of my heart, quiet little embers still persist. If you listen closely enough, they'll tell you a story. <br /><br />The theater lights dim as a song from too long ago begins to play. I am the hero in this story as everything else blurs away.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><br />The next few days breezed by very quickly. We continued with training without incident. I learned about the strangest things like DST, AHT, and the dreaded, despicable schwa. It was strange to learn about a whole new world that existed apart from mine. I thought I had everything I needed to speak to an American. That week, I learned that I was wrong. It seems that not only did I struggle with the cultural pieces. I also had a slight problem with prepositions.<br /><br />Vincent and I continued smoking together. It turns out, we had a lot in common despite the fact that he was about a decade older than me. We listened to the same music, laughed at the same jokes, and enjoyed the same films. He also turned out to be really good at grammar. Over one of our breaks, he taught me a trick about prepositions.<br /><br />"I just don't get it. In Filipino, it's all <i>sa sa sa</i>. And then suddenly, I learn there's in the car. On the bus. At the train station. <i>Ano ba yun?</i>"<br /><br />"It's <i>in</i> that's used more often than not. Rooms, cities, states, counties, even <i>barangays</i>. Anything that has a border uses in."<br /><br />"See that's what my problem is. I always end up using <i>on</i>. It just sounds better. On time. On point. On cue... On top? Everything sounds better with on." <br /><br />"I don't know about you but I'd rather be <i>in</i> than just <i>on</i>," he retorted with a smile. I looked up from my seat to see that he was staring at me. Suddenly, it was clear that we weren't talking about prepositions anymore.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><br />On our last day of training, he asked if I had any plans after work. <br /><br />"But we're broke!" I exclaimed, laughing at the very idea of drinking when I was still living off an allowance from my parents. "How do we get drunk if we can barely afford a bucket?" It 'd be a good two weeks before either of us got paid.<br /><br />"It doesn't have to be a whole bucket," he said. "And we don't even have to get more than one each."<br /><br />"I'm not gonna get drunk from just one," I dismissed. "I'm a college kid, remember?"<br /><br />"You <i>were</i> a college kid. And trust me," he said, grabbing my hand as we walked to 7-11. "Have I ever let you down?" It was the first time we ever held hands like that and it felt like I could just explode.<br /><br />A few minutes later, enveloped in the cold 6AM breeze, we stood about a foot from each other. In our hands, we held a can of San Mig Light each.<br /><br />"Ready?" he asked, his smile wide and beaming from miles away. "And remember, it's one long chug. If you break at any point, next round's on you."<br /><br />"One long chug. You know I'm pretty sure this is illegal." I said. We were standing at a street corner. I looked around for any guards or policemen who could spot us.<br /><br />"Stop being such a wuss, will you?" he said as he lifted the tab. He caught some of the escaping foam with his mouth and wiped the rest on his sleeve. "Ready?"<br /><br />I took a deep breath and opened my can. "Ready." <br /><br />We linked arms like they do in the movies. "Bottoms up." I emptied the can into my throat. I tipped my head back as the last of the golden liquid dripped into my mouth. I felt a rush almost immediately. He was right. I'd never drank beer so quickly before and my head was swimming. When I came to, I peered at him and saw he was only about halfway through.<br /><br />"Not so strong anymore, are we? C'mon old man, you can do it!" His eyes grew wide with those words. <i>Old man.</i> He finished his can, crushed it with one hand, and threw it to the ground.<br /><br />"Old man? Old man? I'll show you <i>old man.</i>" He wrapped both arms around my waist and pulled me close to his body. I looked up at him in shock and anticipation. I could smell the alcohol from his breath as his body pressed against mine. My knees felt weak as he tightened his grip on my body. My heart started beating furiously, like it wanted to escape from my chest. I wanted to shout but no words could escape my lips. I let my bag and my inhibitions slip to the ground. I closed my eyes, certain he was about to kiss me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---</div><br />"Who's the old man now?" he scoffed as he let go. I couldn't move. He picked up the can, tossed it into the bin, and walked away. I was left standing there, slackjawed and wondering. <i>What just happened?</i><br /><br />"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Cruz," he said, walking away. I could hear a persistent smile in his voice. I stood there, immobile, recalling those six little words. They were a promise of more days like this up ahead. They sent me home on a cloud.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Amy Winehouse | To Know Him Is To Love Him [Live] (2007)<br />City Part <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2014/01/unfold.html">1</a> | <b>2</b></span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-57383124240742380772014-01-27T14:04:00.000+08:002014-02-24T11:56:39.255+08:00unfold<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-hDJEYhElQMU/UuXz7LDv6WI/AAAAAAAAYNI/uIz9EBT1o24/s800/city.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://jmraz.free.fr/ftp/09%20Rhythm%20Cafe%203/04%20unfold.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://jmraz.free.fr/ftp/09%20Rhythm%20Cafe%203/04%20unfold.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-EH4Gs77oddY/UuXz7C37OeI/AAAAAAAAYNM/EM4s19JTQAA/s800/rhythmmraz.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />When I was a kid, I wondered what it was like to fall in love. I had only ever seen it in fairy tales – the prince would sweep the lonely maiden off her feet as the music swells. There would be birds singing and stars aligning. If you're lucky, maybe you'd have fireworks. I wondered if it was like that in real life. In the summer of 2007, I found out.<br /><br />Vince was not a friend of mine, at least not right away. He was quiet, always sulking in a corner with a paperback and pack of Marlboro reds. But I loved him just the same. I had just graduated. I didn't know the first thing about love, my career, or anything remotely adult. By the time I threw my graduation cap in the air, I didn't know where it would land. I received a call from a call center recruiter one day. They received my application from a job website and they were inviting me for an interview. <i>A sign,</i> I declared. Since I had no other leads, I wore my father's best polo, polished my shoes, and dragged my ass to their Makati office.<br /><br />I got in and on the first day of training, I spotted Vincent right away. He was slightly older than me and spoke with a perfect American accent. Because we were the only smokers in our wave, we got along fairly quickly. In between orientation and pronunciation modules, we learned about each other's lives. I was a call center virgin fresh off of college. He was an undergrad who had spent years in a non-voice account in Cagayan. He didn't look bad either. He certainly knew how to dress himself. He also had quite a temper on him. We'd barely gotten to lunch when he got into an argument with our accent trainer. <br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"It's ih-REH-vuh-kuh-bul," he insisted. On the board, a speech drill sentence stood frozen in time. "Irrevocable" was underlined twice for emphasis and they were arguing about how it's supposed to be pronounced.<br /><br />"Americans say ih-reh-VOW-kuh-bul. It maintains its original stress. Surely, I must know this. I'm your trainer." Our rookie trainer looked like she was about to explode.<br /><br />"Surely you <i>must.</i> But that doesn't change that fact that it's ih-REH-vuh-kuh-bul." My other wavemates and I, we didn't know what to do. It felt like we were caught in the middle of the world's most pointless war.<br /><br />"Here, I'll show you," he said as he typed furiously into his assigned computer. Within seconds, the speakers boasted of the truth that none of us wanted to hear. He was right.<br /><br />"Are you browsing a non-work site?" she asked. We all knew the rules and he clearly just broke one. It didn't matter if he was right all along. He made her look like an idiot and there would be hell to pay. "Stay after your shift. HR will be hearing from you."</blockquote>I waited for him outside our building after class. There I was, first day of work and the only guy who was remotely interesting was about to get terminated. I must've burned through my pack of menthols from the nervousness. When HR finally released him, he walked out of the building looking cool and confident.<br /><br />"What happened?" I asked, fear in my voice.<br /><br />"I explained what happened and they let me go with a warning." He fished out his pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lit up a stick.<br /><br />"If it makes you feel better, Merriam-Webster agrees with you." I showed him my phone. There were fine lines on his face. His eyes squinted into tiny slits as he viewed the definition.<br /><br />"But then so was she," he said, referring to the secondary pronunciation. He continued to read the article. "From Latin. <i>Irrevocabilis.</i>"<br /><br />"I thought for sure they'd sack you." I said, hesitating. "I was worried that I would lose my only friend."<br /><br />"It'll take more than a green accent trainer to bring down Vicente Cabrera," he chuckled. "Plus it wouldn't be fair. I was just starting to get to know you." We finished our cigarettes in peace and went our separate ways. In my heart, I could feel the quiet tugging of a chapter about to unfold.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Jason Mraz | Unfold (2000)<br />City Part <b>1</b> | <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2014/02/ember-cinema.html">2</a></span><br /><hr /><b>THE HARDEST STORIES</b> to write are the ones that are actually true. I realized this as soon as I started writing this story down. A friend and I were talking about the cheesiest things that ever happened to us and I remembered this little scene from when I first started working. I got to write it all down this morning and the daunting word count led me to chop it up into smaller bite-sized chunks. I won't make the same mistake I made with <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/search/label/stella">Stella</a>. I actually made sure I'd written most of it down by the time I started. Next installment within the week. :)citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-30850230956801579872014-01-19T01:24:00.003+08:002014-02-24T11:56:26.543+08:00to my lover on his twenty-seventh year<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-oC7SHiamnJQ/Utq3E8j_XzI/AAAAAAAAYMQ/aBnVtd-iNt0/s800/SAM_0063_.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://dc195.4shared.com/img/431800861/62ecb98e/dlink__2Fdownload_2FRUNss7yU_3Ftsid_3D20140118-121209-f45890f0/preview.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://dc195.4shared.com/img/431800861/62ecb98e/dlink__2Fdownload_2FRUNss7yU_3Ftsid_3D20140118-121209-f45890f0/preview.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-7gCAQy7EfuM/Utq3E2QiW4I/AAAAAAAAYMU/l4gQHWLR_1A/s800/hoku.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; padding: 0;" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Someone once told me that if you truly want to be happy, you must marry the kindest person you know. And I briefly thought of this while we were having coffee this morning. The café was full of people but there was only one person I wanted to see, only one person I could ever truly love. You were laughing at something silly I said and there was a slight wrinkle at the corner of each eye. It took my breath away.<br /><br />You are sleeping as I write this. I hear your gentle snores rising from the bed. Tomorrow you must leave me. You are so real to me, such an integral cog in the machine of my life, that I feel as though I am broken whenever you leave. One day, I will forgive you for the five months you made me wait until you were born. Till then, I relish the idea that the days I spend without you are numbered. <br /><br />It was as though you knew all this would happen, that day you stepped out of the fog and into my life. You saw past the pretenses, the walls I put up to hide my psychoses, and saw me as the man I didn't know I could be. Forgive me for all the stupid things I did that hurt you. So much of who I am now – the maturity, the strength, the over-all feeling of wholeness – I owe all that to you.<br /><br />You stir and calm me all in one breath. Happy birthday, my love. You are more than just my greatest adventure. You are all my dreams come true.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">♫: Hoku | You First Believed (2000)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-31604395479377637892014-01-02T14:32:00.003+08:002014-01-02T15:24:08.134+08:00on forgetting<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-caPnfFA7b80/UsUDaGujUXI/AAAAAAAAYLs/2qpITGnZQqM/s800/IMAG2854.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="30" style="padding-top: 5px;" width="570"><audio controls="" style="width: 102%;"><source src="http://dc176.4shared.com/img/846616196/7f96d8f2/dlink__2Fdownload_2F25cAkip2_3Ftsid_3D20120307-070624-5800346b/preview.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"></source><embed bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="soundFile=http://dc176.4shared.com/img/846616196/7f96d8f2/dlink__2Fdownload_2F25cAkip2_3Ftsid_3D20120307-070624-5800346b/preview.mp3" height="30" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 30px; width: 300px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" wmode="transparent"></embed></audio></td><td height="35" width="50"><img style="padding: 0;background: transparent;border: none;" align="right" height="35" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-g2wUNZISTsQ/UsUDaHvPF9I/AAAAAAAAYLw/to8q5WskT4Y/s800/schuyler.jpg" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />"You left the shampoo bottle uncapped again," I shouted from the bathroom. I wasn't picking a fight or anything. I just remembered this thing a friend told me about how there are little particles of shit in all bathrooms and I didn't want that stuff in my hair.<br /><br />There was no response from him so I peeked out of the bathroom, my body safe behind the wall.<br /><br />"Did you hear me? I said you forgot the…"<br /><br />"The shampoo bottle. Got it," he said, barely lifting his head from the laptop. I smiled at him, letting him know I wasn't flying off the handle. He smiled back, a hurried one at first but then when he saw that this was something that genuinely bothered me, he eased back with a sharp exhale.<br /><br />"It's a small thing really but it's slowly driving me nuts. Last week, you left the fridge door open and I had to throw out some meat."<br /><br />"I'm sorry for being forgetful but…"<br /><br />"But?" I interjected, my pitch a little too high for comfort.<br /><br />"But I'm not the only one," he said with a chuckle. He pointed his lips towards the outlet. My cellphone charger was plugged in, the cord left hanging like a headless snake. "Don't blame me if you set your apartment on fire."<br /><br />I laughed, a genuine one at least. How have we become so forgetful?<br /><br />"What are we going to do?" I asked. "They say love is about remembering, about keeping track of the minute details of each and everyday, and I just don't think we have the mental capacity to remember all that!" I pictured us grey and old, forgetting to unplug appliances and cap shampoo bottles. What will we fail to remember next?<br /><br />"Well at least we'd have each other," he said, finality in his tone. Conversation over. I shut the door and showered in peace. With wet fingers, I searched my phone for a familiar song. If he paid attention, he'd hear the prayer of my heart.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i>I wish I wasn't so fragile.<br />Because I know I'm not easy to handle.<br /><br />Oh, baby please.<br />Don't forget you love me.<br />Don't forget you love me today.<br /><br />Oh, my baby please.<br />Don't forget you love me.<br />Don't forget you love me today.</i></div><br /><i>Well at least we'd have each other.</i> With that, I knew I would gladly forget about everything in the world except for one thing – him.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Schuyler Fisk | Fall Apart Today (2009)</span><br /><br /><hr/><b>HELLO!</b> So I updated my music player to HTML5 with an option for Flash on older browsers. I'm going to sincerely make an effort to pay attention to this space this year. I've also set up a Facebook page which you can like <a href="https://www.facebook.com/citybuoycitysongs">here</a> (please? pretty please?). I haven't really done anything to it but I fully intend to one of these days!citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-56064985367063107272013-12-31T02:49:00.003+08:002013-12-31T03:09:28.663+08:00wishstick<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-w9PpWcfIpNM/UsG-kILvT0I/AAAAAAAAYLM/4Uv42wVxWFE/s800/1668_1000.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="32" valign="bottom" width="570"><embed allowscriptaccess="sameDomain" bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="titles=Dishwalla - Angels or Devils&amp;soundFile=http://archive.org/download/AlternativeContagion/AngelsOrDevils-Dishwalla.mp3" height="24" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://www.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 24px; width: 580px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="580" wmode="transparent"></embed></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lczNRhZ-wYM/UsG-kJJJjKI/AAAAAAAAYLI/gMYMtERXY-c/s800/81842879.jpg" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i>"It is what it is. What can I say? You chose a man with complications."</i> And he said this to me in one breath, as though it were that easy. My mind raced with questions. Did he love me? Would that be enough? What was I looking for? What did I expect I could get from all this? I couldn't answer any of them. I just sat there, eyes glued to the floor as the man with too many strings attached broke my heart.<br /><br /><i>"Do you love her?"</i> I asked. It was a question that would hurt but I needed to hear his answer. He tapped the bottom end of his cigarette pack and tore the seal off. He took the first stick and put it back in the pack, filter end first. What he needed a wish stick for, I didn't need to know.<br /><br /><i>"I don't know,"</i> he answered, his pitch tentative. <i>"Not as much as I used to but I guess there's still some love there. When you give your heart to someone, anyone really, a part of you will always love them."</i><br /><br /><i>"What about me?"</i> I asked, the words getting caught in my throat. <i>"Will a part of me always be with you?"</i> He looked away. His silence spoke more than any explanation he could give me. And since the burden was all mine, I was left with nothing to do but to cradle my head in my hands and wait for the world to stop spinning.<br /><br /><i>"My father taught me how to smoke. Did I ever tell you that? He said that the first cigarette is always lucky and so each new pack gives you a fresh wish. That's why I keep doing this,"</i> he said, showing me the stick he had flipped. Maybe this was his way of answering my question. <i>"I know it sounds silly but a part of me has always believed in that."</i><br /><br /><i>"And what did you wish for in this pack?"</i><br /><br /><i>"I wished that I'd met you before her."</i> He lit up a cigarette and took short, pensive puffs. "Because the only alternative is <i>after her.</i> And I just don't think I can do that." I looked straight into his dark brown eyes and saw a million forevers that would never be.<br /><br />The new year brings us hope – hope of a fresh start, of possibilities, and of countless choices that won't turn into regrets. If I could do it all over again, would I have wrapped my life around his? He took one last puff of his cigarette, put it out on his shoe, and walked away.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Dishwalla | Angels or Devils (2002)</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: <a href="http://www.mbart.com/usr/images/artworks/1668_1000.jpg" target="_blank">mbart</a></span><br /><hr /><b>MANIGONG BAGONG TAON!</b> And so another year comes to a close. I know I didn't really get to write that much (14 posts! My lowest ever!) but I sincerely appreciate everybody for sticking around anyway. See you next year!citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-46129237700205526952013-11-20T09:57:00.000+08:002013-12-31T02:43:55.803+08:00stella (4): shadowplay<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w9F7sDv8CtM/UowTVP1yihI/AAAAAAAAYJU/DnX4O_igXXg/s800/shadow.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="32" valign="bottom" width="570"><embed allowscriptaccess="sameDomain" bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="titles=The Killers - When You Were Young&amp;soundFile=http://musicglob.com/pub/music/The%20Killers%20-%20When%20You%20Were%20Young%20(Full%20Song)%201.mp3" height="24" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://podcasts.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 24px; width: 580px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="580" wmode="transparent"></embed></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-T0MeICH5F8k/UowTa98I5-I/AAAAAAAAYJc/YuwJQWxc1Zw/s800/sams.jpg" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />He hides in the closet, between sundresses and black miniskirts. He inhales through his mouth, his regular breaths sounding more like wheezes than exhales. His sweat often soaks through his shirt and the face towel beneath it. All this he endures to catch a glimpse of her naked body under the sullen moonlight. It is Wednesday, her day off, and he is all too familiar with her routine.<br /><br />Stella is awake. She is humming a tune under her breath, a melody from too long ago. I recognize it almost instantly. She closes her eyes and her right hand ducks quietly under the covers. You can see her writhing in bed, one hand on her sex, the other fondling a breast. She seeks pleasure nightly, her regulars coming before she can even think about getting turned on. Her neck relaxes as she finds the right rhythm, the right pressure for pleasure. He shifts from within the closet, the wood creaking at his weight. Stella's eyes fly open as she lets out a quiet, little scream.<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>"Surprise!"</i> they exclaim as she enters. And to think she had prayed they'd forgotten. All the girls are there. They transformed the tiny dressing room into a little corner of home. Makeshift streamers and condom balloons line the walls. Stella is breathless. She didn't want to make a fuss of this day but one of the girls had overheard her talking on the phone and the passing of her 25th birthday was too tempting, too delicious to ignore.<br /><br />This would be her final birthday at the bar. Girls just tend to disappear when they become too old for the patrons and it was decided long before her time that 25 was the right age to retire.</blockquote><br /><i>"Who's there?"</i> she asks, clutching the blanket close to her chest. <i>"Who's there?!"</i> she shouts.<br /><br />The closet door opens slowly and she sees a dark figure emerging into the light. He looks embarrassed, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But this was no regular cookie, he would soon find out.<br /><br /><i>"What the hell do you think you're you doing? How long have you been watching me?"</i> He doesn't answer. Instead, he gets up to leave. He looks at her one last time, his eyes full of regret, then he walks slowly to the door.<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>"So, what are your plans after this?"</i> Hazel asks.<br /><br /><i>"I don't really know. I'm probably just going to eat my cake then go home,"</i> she answers, playing dumb.<br /><br /><i>"You know what I mean. You've had a long career here. Surely, you've thought about this at least once."</i> Stella could tell that this was her idea. With her out of the picture, Hazel would inherit her regular customers. But she didn't think she'd be smart enough to orchestrate this blatant reminder of the bar's policy on how old the talents should be.<br /><br /><i>"Well, we can't all be rock stars,"</i> she says. <i>"Any day now, Bookie will ask to meet with you about your options. What are you gonna do then?"</i><br /><br /><i>"I don't know,"</i> she dismisses, a blank expression on her face. <i>"I'll figure something out."</i> And something in me knew she would. She always does.</blockquote><i><br />"Bookie,"</i> she offers. His hand on the doorknob, the door ajar. <i>"You don't have to go."</i> He looks at her from the dark hallway. She seems smaller than before. Something has changed. You could see it in her eyes.<br /><br /><i>"Get back in there and watch me."</i> Her voice is warm at first, like the beginning of surrender. He refuses to move. Her dark brown eyes pierce through him in the darkness. She commands him once again, this time louder, harder. He closes the door and gets back in the closet. Stella resumes.<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>I'll figure something out</i>, she answered. And something in me knew she would. She always does.<br /><br />The girls sing her a song and Stella blows out the candles. She takes a large slice of the cake and sets it on a paper plate. She picks a sugary flower, the largest and brightest of them all, and plants it in the middle of the slice. She walks slowly, carefully like a cat about to pounce, and knocks gently on the manager's door.<br /><br /><i>"Bookie?"</i> she beckons, her voice low and gentle like a purr. <i>"Bookie, I have something for you."</i></blockquote><br />He comes back every Wednesday, her one day off work. He knows her routine all too well. One week, he is in the closet. The next, on the bedroom floor. One week, she lets his hand rest on the bed. The next, he lays there quietly with her. He doesn't touch her. He wouldn't dare to. But on a particular Wednesday when the moon was at its dimmest, Stella raised her final white flag.<br /><br /><i>"Hold me,"</i> she whispers, desperation in her voice. Bookie's eyes light up with anticipation. He puts his arm around her and rocks her gently to sleep. I look away.<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">And I have seen all this through my eyes in the walls. I move undetected, like a shadow in the darkness. I am here because love compels me. I am here because the light has denied us.</span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #f3f3f3;">My name is Bryan and I am not here, No, not really.</span></blockquote><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: The Killers | When You Were Young (2006)</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: <a href="http://www.islam.ru/sites/default/files/files/boyazn01.jpg" target="_blank">shadow</a></span><br /><br /><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--b5zMpF-FjM/Uj8r3adSAjI/AAAAAAAAYEQ/3zdBM5-kxAA/s800/stella.jpg" /><br /><ul><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/05/stella-and-her-waiting-1.html">Stella and Her Waiting</a></li><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/06/stella-and-her-waiting-2-running.html">Running</a></li><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/07/stella-and-her-waiting-3-next-to-me.html">Next to Me</a></li><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/11/stella-4-shadowplay.html">Shadowplay</a></li></ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-7529614715220884062013-10-06T02:07:00.000+08:002013-11-05T11:34:14.986+08:00the courage of lovers<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-M00IHuLmsMQ/UlBTRubdnCI/AAAAAAAAYFM/eMjl4yxJAQs/s800/bridges.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="32" valign="bottom" width="570"><embed allowscriptaccess="sameDomain" bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="titles=Johnny Hartman - I See Your Face Before Me&amp;soundFile=http://portuguese-us-law-dictionary.com/music/i_see_your_face_before_me_johnny_hartman.mp3" height="24" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://podcasts.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 24px; width: 580px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="580" wmode="transparent"></embed></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8bmlyiVc2a8/UlBTRnJcFBI/AAAAAAAAYFQ/L5faL17Kz-k/s800/41Q7X1NAZ1L.jpg" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />He stands in the middle of a lonely kitchen fiddling with the radio. He hears the beginning of a gentle love song and the distinct clacking of heels on the ceramic tiles. He turns to see her standing awkwardly, freshly scrubbed and in a new dress. Her hair is pulled tight behind her head, save for a few unruly strands on the side. The moonlight glows on her olive skin as he struggles to speak. How do you even begin to describe such beauty, such delicate perfection in the rough?<br /><br /><i>"What's wrong?"</i> she asks, her weight shifting from foot to foot. She pats her dress down, waving away imaginary wrinkles on the fabric. He shakes his head and walks toward her. There is a hunger in his eyes. He takes in some air to speak but hesitates. <br /><br /><i>"You look stunning,"</i> he finally says and she breathes a sigh of relief. Her shoulders relax and her lips break into a knowing smile.<br /><br /><i>"…if you don't mind me saying so,"</i> he adds. For a second, she remembers that he is not supposed to be here. That this is a house she shares with another man. <i>Oh God, was this a mistake?</i><br /><br /><i>"Make-them-run-around-the-block-howling-in-agony stunning."</i> He smiles at her, that lopsided grin she's seen him put on countless times and all of a sudden, she is a different woman. She breathes a sigh of relief. Her fears melt away. Such is the courage of lovers.<br /><br />She walks towards him, feeling braver and stronger with each step. On the radio, the man sings about his lover's eyes. There's a certain warmth in these old records. It's almost like they were made to score scenes like this. As she approaches, the phone starts to ring – yet another cruel reminder of the family that waits for her miles away. He looks at the telephone, indecision in his face. <i>You should get that</i>, he seemed to say. Resigned, she picks up as a voice from miles away clicks on.<br /><br /><i>"Johnson's. Hi,"</i> she answers in her thick Italian accent. It is Madge, a gossipy old woman two houses down. He walks to the fridge to get a beer.<br /><br />"I was just fixing myself something to eat," she lies. She asks if she's heard of the drifter, a serious looking man with striking grey hair. She feigns indifference, not wanting to cause suspicion by the sudden shift in her tone of voice.<br /><br />He sits down in front of her and she notices his messy collar. Her fingers dance upon his shirt, little cackles of electricity coursing through their bodies. Her hand finally rests gently on his shoulder. There is a warmth in her touch that he had never felt from anyone or anything before.<br /><br />He places his hand on hers. She looks longingly into his eyes, noticing the deep wrinkles around the edges. She hangs up. He stands and leads her to the middle of the kitchen. They start to dance, slowly and with all the emotion they'd kept at bay since they met. She rests her head on his shoulder. He takes a whiff of her soft, sienna hair, wondering how he could have truly lived all those years without knowing what it felt like to hold her in his arms.<br /><br /><i>"If you want me to stop, tell me now,"</i> he warns. Before his passion consumes them, before they cross the line they've been toeing all night. Their lips move closer and farther, like magnets undecided of their poles. She closes her eyes until there is nothing but warm current in her veins, his hand on her waist, and her warm breath on his waiting lips.<br /><br /><i>"No one's asking you to,"</i> she whispers, eyes ablaze. He kisses her, spreading quiet little flames from her mouth to her cheeks to the small of her back. He kisses her again and again until her whole body is on fire. He pulls her body to his, their hearts beating to the same drum, to the same love. On the radio, the man sings of their love as it unfolds.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i>I see your face before me<br />Crowding my every dream.<br />There is your face before me<br />You are my only theme.<br />It doesn't matter where you are.<br />I can see how fair you are.<br />I close my eyes and there you are.</i></div><br />He kisses her until their bodies are on fire. Tomorrow, there would be reckoning but for a few stolen hours, she wanted to think of nothing but his warm embrace, his gentle kisses, and the sound of two hearts beating to the same love.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">►: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bridges_of_Madison_County_(film)">The Bridges of Madison County</a> (1995)<br />♫: Johnny Harman | I See Your Face Before Me (1980)</span><br /><br /><hr /><b>HAPPY BIRTHDAY CITYBUOY!</b> Gawd, I'm really getting old. Today is this space's ninth birthday. From adolescent rants to unsolicited advice. Through haphazard movie reviews and saccharine stories, we've certainly gone a long way. Thank you for staying with me through personal crises and countless hiatus<i>eseseses</i>. I am celebrating with a fresh coat of paint (and let's face it, the pink layout just wasn't working). See my first post <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2004/10/buena-mano.html">here</a>.citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-15607614146795135752013-08-08T18:50:00.004+08:002013-08-08T18:50:46.048+08:00birthday thoughts<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-uQrUqk0mekA/UgN2T3_aJQI/AAAAAAAAX8o/oz2STor3b7Y/s800/birthday.png" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="32" valign="bottom" width="570"><embed allowscriptaccess="sameDomain" bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="titles=Imagine Dragons - It’s Time&amp;soundFile=http://songspkdb.asia/engtracks/2013/Its%20Time/It's%20Time%20-%20Imagine%20Dragons%20(Songslover.org).mp3" height="24" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://podcasts.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 24px; width: 580px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="580" wmode="transparent"></embed></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-VEPh-XN7Rjo/UgN2RfXTE4I/AAAAAAAAX8g/ajucuU8xs6I/s800/ImagineDragons-%25282012%2529-NightVisions.jpg" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Last year, I wished for excitement. Let’s just say I got <i>waaaaay</i> more than I bargained for.<br /><br />All in 365 days, I unexpectedly moved out of my parents’ house, learned how to cook, had 3 jobs, got promoted and terminated within the same week, survived "funemployment", went to labor court, wrote a bunch of stories, had my blog plagiarized, met a ton of new friends, and experienced the biggest love of my life. Thank you to everybody who made all these happen. <img src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/6.gif" height="15"/><br /><br />These are only words but I hope they are enough to show how much I appreciate how you have touched my life. No matter what tomorrow brings, I know that I am strong enough to face it all.<br /><br /><b>27, KAMOWN LEZZGODODEEZ!!!</b><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Imagine Dragons | It’s Time (2012)</span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com54tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-83981113726489630812013-07-28T21:48:00.000+08:002013-10-22T05:10:08.078+08:00how to deal with plagiarists<b>UPDATE:</b> See his response <a href="http://jpipz.tumblr.com/post/57320857297/yes" target="_blank"><u>here</u>.</a> As promised, I have removed all identifying marks on this post.<br /><br /><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-U8ND2fPRNfY/UjS9PQ9zquI/AAAAAAAAX-k/tRokPsdPBY8/s800/00.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="32" valign="bottom" width="570"><embed allowscriptaccess="sameDomain" bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="titles=Lily Allen - Fuck You&amp;soundFile=http://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_l6wzi0msZx1qzskdso1.mp3" height="24" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://podcasts.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 24px; width: 580px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="580" wmode="transparent"></embed></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-0ZPgs23UfyU/UfUCUBx4ChI/AAAAAAAAXw8/Uuevfz5sjac/s800/00_.jpg" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i>“Hi citybuoy!”</i> I heard someone say. I sat up surprised. No one at work ever calls me by my blog name. The source was a boy two tables away. Seeing I was alone, he came up to me and introduced himself.<br /><br /><i>“My name is Jp. I’m such a big fan. Pwede magpa-picture?”</i> I must admit I enjoyed my mini-celebrity moment and so despite the awkwardness in his request, I gave in and smiled for his camera.<br /><br />A few minutes later, Twitter notified me I was mentioned. He wasn’t kidding. He really was a big fan.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PKdQjuRhXk8/UfUHZCTp3uI/AAAAAAAAXx4/W-afSMChpxM/s1600/01.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-deo27bghMB0/UjS9QfxBvjI/AAAAAAAAX-s/6q_XOaTj05c/s800/01.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><br />It’s funny how a year and a half later, I found myself remembering this exchange. I didn’t know (couldn’t know really) then that this would be the start of something really big. I was smoking with a co-worker when she asked me if I’d seen Jp’s Instagram account lately.<br /><br /><i>“No, not really. I don’t think I even followed him back.” </i>I answered.<br /><i><br /></i> <i>“I think you should check it out. Naka-open naman siya so even if you’re not following him, you can see his posts.” </i>There was something different about how she was talking about all this. Like there was something she wanted to say but couldn’t.<br /><i><br /></i> <i>“Wait, why should I check his profile?</i><br /><i><br /></i> <i>“Basta. Check mo lang when you get home.”</i><br /><br />That night, I did. I couldn’t find his account at first so I had to check some of our common friends to see if he’d commented on any of their posts. When I found him, I saw that his account was private and I couldn’t click Follow. I logged out and went back to his profile and I was not prepared for what I saw.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KkMu9c-ZDNA/UfUFoZeNmcI/AAAAAAAAXxU/-eWkgsqYhUU/s1600/02.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-b5WEUDphIU4/UjS9RPhB70I/AAAAAAAAX-4/D8lbDLbY41Q/s800/02.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><br />There, in broad daylight, were plagiarized versions of my stories.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pZXlcICSCMc/UfUGBJBUA4I/AAAAAAAAXxg/3OQXQpMHaIU/s1600/03-.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="385" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-p9E3rRNSSyw/UjS9RjLGGXI/AAAAAAAAX-8/lYkHf0b1NmU/s800/03-.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>beachbuoy</b>, published in August 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/08/beachbuoy.html">here.</a>‎</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DbjxdNdV15U/UfUGAoVy2uI/AAAAAAAAXxk/cZGBSkMWF-U/s1600/04-.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--_GeJa3sjj0/UjS9SRhd3TI/AAAAAAAAX_E/sMTJKCwPens/s800/04-.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>a letter from the future</b>, published in April 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/03/letter-from-future.html">here.</a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AegtWVSN_8c/UfUGe0AYPjI/AAAAAAAAXxs/HLFDsmTp_KE/s1600/05-.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="379" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-U4toTrHc7bc/UjS9U-tfBJI/AAAAAAAAX_c/XPRNHYvmQsc/s800/05-.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>interlude: flight</b>, published in January 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/01/flight.html">here.</a></div><br />I scrolled through all of his posts (and there were A LOT of them) and I found around 20+ story excerpts, status updates, and iPhone notes that I wrote. Many of them linked back to his Facebook page and referenced a “#GCW”. It was clear that if I wanted answers, they’d be on his Facebook profile. I remembered he added me a while back so I logged on to Facebook to search for him. Surprise, surprise. There were no hits. He blocked me from even viewing his profile.<br /><br />So I did what any responsible netizen would do. I borrowed a friend’s Facebook username and password, and for the next hour or so, I took screenshot after screenshot of Jp’s blog: <b>Gay Can Write.</b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cmK2fKgPqcE/UfUHtIn-jtI/AAAAAAAAXyk/doBiTH2090g/s1600/06.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="523" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-VSZfX02kksE/UjS9WLz8biI/AAAAAAAAX_s/74wca3PAq-8/s800/06-.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><br />Right away, I recognized many of the posts. He posted them as pictures and since they were locked behind Facebook’s airtight security settings, there was no way in Hades I could’ve ever seen them. He edited a few of them, perhaps to make it less detectable but a writer always knows what he’s written. Heck, he even used some of the pictures I used. With the exception of about 5 posts, everything was plagiarized from this blog. <br /><br /><b>CALL AND ORDER WITHIN THE NEXT 15 MINUTES.&nbsp;</b>For <strike>your </strike>our enjoyment, here are ALL the posts that this talentless thief stole from me. I used my phone to take these screenshots because it's faster. The downside is, you can only scroll through limited lines of text at a time. I tried to caption most of them but with over 60 entries, this could take a while. The impatient may click <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/07/how-to-deal-with-plaigarists.html#ending">here</a> for the resolution. :)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WRbTtI0MydY/UfUHqClBDcI/AAAAAAAAXyQ/MGs5YEKy7gw/s1600/07.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WRbTtI0MydY/UfUHqClBDcI/AAAAAAAAXyQ/MGs5YEKy7gw/s640/07.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>quiet</b>, published in August 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/08/quiet.html">here.</a> He changed a few things like the petname and the song I heard on the radio towards the end but everything else was pretty intact. I checked the comments and got the shock of my life.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--8nPT9zSRgM/UfUHr8kfvtI/AAAAAAAAXyc/uNVxEISvURo/s1600/08.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-FebKbSZvsRc/UjS9W3Jl0aI/AAAAAAAAX_0/may5--VKuZ4/s800/08.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />I immediately recognized Michael Tolentino’s comment. Kane left the exact same comment 3 years ago. Jp’s comment is what I replied to Kane then. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uBalHDAJxHc/UfUHsSBoOsI/AAAAAAAAXyg/6fipj_kH-9Y/s1600/09.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="544" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uBalHDAJxHc/UfUHsSBoOsI/AAAAAAAAXyg/6fipj_kH-9Y/s640/09.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><br />He didn’t just steal the post. <b>He also stole the comments</b>. (Note: I checked these frequent commenters and saw that he set up 2-3 dummy accounts to comment on his stories. Most of them had empty profiles except for one who was kind of cute. Apart from commenting on #GCW, this “person” had Facebook checked-in to Jp’s apartment a couple of times.)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-szRkMHw702I/UfUHyvhEt8I/AAAAAAAAXy4/_SesDt1biG0/s1600/10.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-szRkMHw702I/UfUHyvhEt8I/AAAAAAAAXy4/_SesDt1biG0/s640/10.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>mirrors</b>, published in July 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/07/mirrors.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y7RE3_nwaWk/UfUHw7GyLbI/AAAAAAAAXyw/nN0KG6UzE68/s1600/11.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y7RE3_nwaWk/UfUHw7GyLbI/AAAAAAAAXyw/nN0KG6UzE68/s640/11.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>stella and her waiting (1)</b>, published in May 2013 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/05/stella-and-her-waiting-1.html">here.</a>‎ He changed Bookie to Mamu. This made me laugh because Bookie will actually play a pretty interesting role in the series. Him changing the character to what sounds like an older lady would totally kill the ending.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-snIQYQU9qhw/UfUH0SGNlVI/AAAAAAAAXzA/Lw1uH-klcFg/s1600/12.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-snIQYQU9qhw/UfUH0SGNlVI/AAAAAAAAXzA/Lw1uH-klcFg/s640/12.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>reprising the bashful</b>, published in March 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/03/reprising-bashful.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GnQsYL_xRC8/UfUH2CxQqHI/AAAAAAAAXzM/K1gUDr0McHo/s1600/13.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Su7Hpiquho8/UjS9YMFlxJI/AAAAAAAAX_8/kuqDZXkWU1E/s800/13.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>guadalupe,</b> published in May 2013 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/05/guadalupe.html">here.</a>‎ He went through all the effort to take pictures at the MRT. I once heard this was illegal. But then again, someone who plagiarizes 60 or so stories must not be that mindful of the law.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8yppH-ndMUs/UfUH2hBoFgI/AAAAAAAAXzQ/uK3diRa2aJQ/s1600/14.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8yppH-ndMUs/UfUH2hBoFgI/AAAAAAAAXzQ/uK3diRa2aJQ/s640/14.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>fifteen different words for tears</b>, published in May 2013 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/05/fifteen-different-words-for-tears.html">here.</a>‎ He changed my Alanis metaphor to Christina Aguilera with humorous effects.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6OvUFczGxyM/UfUH51fCuII/AAAAAAAAXzY/nB2HV-u_Tjs/s1600/15.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6OvUFczGxyM/UfUH51fCuII/AAAAAAAAXzY/nB2HV-u_Tjs/s640/15.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>surrender</b>, published in November 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/11/surrender.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e97cONs73nQ/UfUH64ehVNI/AAAAAAAAXzg/9tbsOVMZ6MA/s1600/16.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e97cONs73nQ/UfUH64ehVNI/AAAAAAAAXzg/9tbsOVMZ6MA/s640/16.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>the taylor swift formula for love</b>, published in March 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/03/taylor-swift-formula-for-love.html">here.</a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tS7_PMF6JsU/UfUH-e-k-OI/AAAAAAAAXzs/BAClu4Ny42A/s1600/17.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZSnw6t_hIhU/UjS9ZsAkNbI/AAAAAAAAYAE/J5HrLGCw2qA/s800/17.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>mean</b>, published in July 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/07/mean.html">here.</a>‎ I wrote this when I was still an accent trainer. He changed the long e sound to some product-specific topic.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oTRnTyBQduc/UfUH-zaw49I/AAAAAAAAXzw/SmomYD_btU8/s1600/18.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oTRnTyBQduc/UfUH-zaw49I/AAAAAAAAXzw/SmomYD_btU8/s640/18.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>crash</b>, published in November 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/11/crash.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y1UsH3oQt0w/UfUIB3CS8mI/AAAAAAAAXz4/hd6tKyED-Ek/s1600/19.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y1UsH3oQt0w/UfUIB3CS8mI/AAAAAAAAXz4/hd6tKyED-Ek/s640/19.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>doodling</b>, published in February 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/02/doodling.html">here.</a>‎ The last picture is an actual doodle from my planner.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c_5uaCiz5PY/UfUIC6baAnI/AAAAAAAAX0A/go0Egn8VkDA/s1600/20-.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c_5uaCiz5PY/UfUIC6baAnI/AAAAAAAAX0A/go0Egn8VkDA/s640/20-.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />Used here again when he reattempted a <a href="http://draft.blogger.com/citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/06/side-x-side.html">side x side.</a> He DM-ed me on Twitter to ask for permission to use this picture. I didn’t know he also wanted the post.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uFErjfGrJxk/UfUNw7SbnMI/AAAAAAAAX6w/5L4W9NGl5pA/s1600/21.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uFErjfGrJxk/UfUNw7SbnMI/AAAAAAAAX6w/5L4W9NGl5pA/s640/21.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>epilogue</b>, published in April 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/04/epilogue.html">here.</a>‎ This was where I first explained where I got the name citybuoy. Good luck owning that.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ezAXWU8syPk/UfUIFHUzj5I/AAAAAAAAX0I/wJUcHLo8VCo/s1600/22.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ezAXWU8syPk/UfUIFHUzj5I/AAAAAAAAX0I/wJUcHLo8VCo/s640/22.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>this is your life</b>, published in October 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/10/this-is-your-life.html">here.</a>‎ In his pathetic attempt to recreate my life, I am guessing he rented out this tattooed man and well… yeah. Never mind that this post was filed under fiction.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kAfBoRGN39c/UfUIGhJoq0I/AAAAAAAAX0Q/OMqm8_KDKYU/s1600/23.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kAfBoRGN39c/UfUIGhJoq0I/AAAAAAAAX0Q/OMqm8_KDKYU/s640/23.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>eraser</b>, published in June 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/06/eraser.html">here.</a>‎ This was particularly freaky because I had an actual helicopter eraser that looked very similar to the one he posted.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K7w4Gjz1NPg/UfUIH_8DmbI/AAAAAAAAX0Y/LT2IkJ3_LF0/s1600/24.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K7w4Gjz1NPg/UfUIH_8DmbI/AAAAAAAAX0Y/LT2IkJ3_LF0/s640/24.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>black widow</b>, published in November 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/11/black-widow.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6Mhy3ZT1g0U/UfUIJiDWtjI/AAAAAAAAX0g/7NL209-QHNk/s1600/25.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6Mhy3ZT1g0U/UfUIJiDWtjI/AAAAAAAAX0g/7NL209-QHNk/s640/25.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>never over</b>, published in February 2012 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/02/never-over.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x5nh0VB-fH0/UfUILvuuu0I/AAAAAAAAX0s/OQCHhX2sBsg/s1600/26.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x5nh0VB-fH0/UfUILvuuu0I/AAAAAAAAX0s/OQCHhX2sBsg/s640/26.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>change of address</b>, published in November 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/11/change-of-address.html">here.</a> Yes folks. When he moved out, he used my moving out post to announce it to the world. And when he got sick…<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h2xkaL8PKdE/UfUIOPpGEDI/AAAAAAAAX00/R1Mia41hxTs/s1600/27.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h2xkaL8PKdE/UfUIOPpGEDI/AAAAAAAAX00/R1Mia41hxTs/s640/27.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>swallow</b>, published in September 2008 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2008/09/swallow.html">here.</a>‎ …he dug all the way back to 2008 to find this post. I talked about my dirty slippers and how beautiful Makati was from my hospital window. Apparently, he had really dirty slippers too and thought Valenzuela was really beautiful. Um okay.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T4w1grZUV6c/UfUIPVf5cTI/AAAAAAAAX08/MH3nFhyqOeE/s1600/28.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T4w1grZUV6c/UfUIPVf5cTI/AAAAAAAAX08/MH3nFhyqOeE/s640/28.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>chances</b>, published in August 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/08/chances.html">here.</a> The park bench where I professed my love to A is now a sarong on the beach. Very original.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eUcZfMgOJcE/UfUIQ1gIqlI/AAAAAAAAX1E/f1Hpu-wEJGE/s1600/29.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eUcZfMgOJcE/UfUIQ1gIqlI/AAAAAAAAX1E/f1Hpu-wEJGE/s640/29.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>prelude: touch</b>, published in February 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/02/prelude-touch.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YC21rJXv1D8/UfUITeLa-sI/AAAAAAAAX1Q/Mgqeo73VSO8/s1600/30.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YC21rJXv1D8/UfUITeLa-sI/AAAAAAAAX1Q/Mgqeo73VSO8/s640/30.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>never yours</b>, published in December 2012 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/12/never-yours.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vDE07vvEZoE/UfUIUx25aBI/AAAAAAAAX1Y/pAnfoQysNXM/s1600/31.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vDE07vvEZoE/UfUIUx25aBI/AAAAAAAAX1Y/pAnfoQysNXM/s640/31.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>dying / time</b>, published in August 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/08/dying-time.html">here.</a>‎ <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Th_jiLxYaPI/UfUIY3p2iDI/AAAAAAAAX1g/pvxGa6pA5ZU/s1600/32.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="406" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8hsWUpXcShw/UjS9b-fjv5I/AAAAAAAAYAM/o7HKz4KhSsY/s800/32.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>0:20:26</b>, published in January 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/01/02026.html">here.</a>‎ This is special because I actually wrote this about him. I logged on one night to find that he Twitter-mentioned me several times asking for a new blog post. I got so annoyed, I wrote about the pressures of writing to a demanding audience. Oh irony of ironies. Perhaps someone was pestering him about his stolen blog posts too (?)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tz9PU4WUTYc/UfUIalWtWzI/AAAAAAAAX1o/qsn5F7Cxmf4/s1600/33.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tz9PU4WUTYc/UfUIalWtWzI/AAAAAAAAX1o/qsn5F7Cxmf4/s640/33.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>paralisado</b>, published in October 2012 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/10/paralisado.html">here.</a>‎ That’s my actual toothbrush making out with Z’s.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xWwNFBu9D4k/UfUIbekkSCI/AAAAAAAAX1w/blU4STW1Mqc/s1600/34.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xWwNFBu9D4k/UfUIbekkSCI/AAAAAAAAX1w/blU4STW1Mqc/s640/34.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>how would you do it?</b>, published in September 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/09/how-would-you-do-it.html">here.</a>‎ He changed “park bench” to “park bench in a gasoline stop.” Um, there’s a reason why they call it a PARK bench.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p8teWVUccxA/UfUIdM9aJsI/AAAAAAAAX14/egfXuaFbdQM/s1600/35.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p8teWVUccxA/UfUIdM9aJsI/AAAAAAAAX14/egfXuaFbdQM/s640/35.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>city</b>, published in October 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/10/city.html">here.</a>‎ He changed the location to a Becky Nights party but the picture shows the Greenbelt references I made in the post.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jD7F0Eultew/UfUIepT8dYI/AAAAAAAAX2E/GJBZJB63E1o/s1600/36.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jD7F0Eultew/UfUIepT8dYI/AAAAAAAAX2E/GJBZJB63E1o/s640/36.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>molar support</b>, published in October 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/10/molar-support.html">here.</a>‎ For the record, that disgusting cavity-filled tooth is definitely not mine (and most likely his). My molar is pictured clean and white in the original post.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3d3iy4uVTg/UfUIgLSpC4I/AAAAAAAAX2M/ehjGg4B7XqY/s1600/37.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3d3iy4uVTg/UfUIgLSpC4I/AAAAAAAAX2M/ehjGg4B7XqY/s640/37.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>this year’s love (ii)</b>, published in October 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/10/this-years-love-ii.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BxXJGXcj20M/UfUIhrWdjeI/AAAAAAAAX2U/-s5WuitVpjg/s1600/38.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BxXJGXcj20M/UfUIhrWdjeI/AAAAAAAAX2U/-s5WuitVpjg/s640/38.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>sooner or later</b>, published in May 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/05/sooner-or-later.html">here.</a>‎ This was about the one girl I ever loved and I guess he had one of those too? Funny, I thought Multiply stopped sending these notices years ago.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XxMWCE0BsgM/UfUIl8oAwLI/AAAAAAAAX2g/zKkOHzE9Hig/s1600/39.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XxMWCE0BsgM/UfUIl8oAwLI/AAAAAAAAX2g/zKkOHzE9Hig/s640/39.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>fog you / i remember</b>, published in August 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/08/fog-you-i-remember.html">here.</a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wH1iQV2PPRI/UfUIl0Q1gWI/AAAAAAAAX2k/I1mPqd8AJJU/s1600/40.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wH1iQV2PPRI/UfUIl0Q1gWI/AAAAAAAAX2k/I1mPqd8AJJU/s640/40.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>reprising the teacher</b>, published in October 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/10/reprising-teacher.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G0tBsXZMi1o/UfUIpgoYv6I/AAAAAAAAX2s/l66wN-RJOuI/s1600/41.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G0tBsXZMi1o/UfUIpgoYv6I/AAAAAAAAX2s/l66wN-RJOuI/s640/41.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>bicycles</b>, published in September 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/09/bicycles.html">here.</a>‎ Very curious how many of our mutual friends who liked this post in 2009 didn’t recognize it when it reappeared in 2013.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uDPGyDbd1fQ/UfUIrFBeZcI/AAAAAAAAX20/uvJQQhYD20Y/s1600/42.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uDPGyDbd1fQ/UfUIrFBeZcI/AAAAAAAAX20/uvJQQhYD20Y/s640/42.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>vacant</b>, published in September 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/09/vacant.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ohlVti1Er1Q/UfUIti7e89I/AAAAAAAAX28/cmScsG7j-qg/s1600/43.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ohlVti1Er1Q/UfUIti7e89I/AAAAAAAAX28/cmScsG7j-qg/s640/43.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>heatstroke</b>, published in April 2012 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/04/heatstroke.html">here.</a>‎ To prove this actually happened, I took a picture of the Starbucks cup. Amazingly, he recreated that shot with his own cup. The major conflict in this story is how I had to be really butch since I’m only partially out so the thought of a known drag queen posting this is beyond me.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lTQV0-0_uRU/UfUIumCHbGI/AAAAAAAAX3E/FYT-xi5f4N0/s1600/44.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lTQV0-0_uRU/UfUIumCHbGI/AAAAAAAAX3E/FYT-xi5f4N0/s640/44.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>closet</b>, published in closet May 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/05/closet.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i_Z1HMBtz38/UfUIwsXjApI/AAAAAAAAX3M/HkyefRBgumA/s1600/45.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i_Z1HMBtz38/UfUIwsXjApI/AAAAAAAAX3M/HkyefRBgumA/s640/45.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>conflict</b>, published in November 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/11/conflict.html">here.</a>‎ The animal I wrote about was our pet bird who “crashed into our living room” years ago. Perhaps his cat, Baby Yum, can also fly.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c4TFQwQ2ERI/UfUI0AoQRMI/AAAAAAAAX3U/ymRRrGJA7gU/s1600/46.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c4TFQwQ2ERI/UfUI0AoQRMI/AAAAAAAAX3U/ymRRrGJA7gU/s640/46.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>maps</b>, published in June 2013 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/06/maps.html">here.</a>‎ Props for adding more dreams to this paragraph.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uDV_0pAxS3Q/UfUI3DhNXsI/AAAAAAAAX3c/Xe8X_QRI6vk/s1600/47.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-escKAUnO7nc/UjS9cbcXRcI/AAAAAAAAYAY/yDFGGWauSQ0/s800/47.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>hanging by a thread</b>, published in March 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/03/hanging-by-thread.html">here.</a>‎ I uploaded this screenshot on Facebook last Thursday. The overwhelming love and support (and threats of cyber-<i>kuyog</i>) have made this experience tolerable. If you got here from this post, here are the screenshots I promised!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c5_ewY217Kg/UfUI5CJ_BeI/AAAAAAAAX3k/wh9UXBr_PIs/s1600/48.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c5_ewY217Kg/UfUI5CJ_BeI/AAAAAAAAX3k/wh9UXBr_PIs/s640/48.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>phantom</b>, published in June 2012 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/06/phantom.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XWOtduEO62g/UfUJJjQ_JfI/AAAAAAAAX4c/fMUBBC7pFRE/s1600/49.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-hVo20v-cxv0/UjS9c8XcbjI/AAAAAAAAYAc/ZlhjM0S_1YU/s800/49.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>mississippi</b>, published in May 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/05/mississipi.html">here.</a>‎ I know for a fact that his first love died. I think it would’ve been nicer if he had written something heartfelt to honor him.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AGOY1R1KAFs/UfUI8K3ykLI/AAAAAAAAX3s/bWforK0WKlU/s1600/50.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AGOY1R1KAFs/UfUI8K3ykLI/AAAAAAAAX3s/bWforK0WKlU/s640/50.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>hello anger</b>, published in September 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/09/hello-anger.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Low1pq2KwB4/UfUI-nBE8dI/AAAAAAAAX30/wKn2fv0pdX0/s1600/51.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Low1pq2KwB4/UfUI-nBE8dI/AAAAAAAAX30/wKn2fv0pdX0/s640/51.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>his jacket</b>, published in October 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/10/his-jacket.html">here.</a>‎ This looks nothing like my father’s leather jacket (or any other leather jacket a father would own).<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NIxEWxjHaDo/UfUJAnsi1KI/AAAAAAAAX38/rGH0RP0a6vQ/s1600/52.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NIxEWxjHaDo/UfUJAnsi1KI/AAAAAAAAX38/rGH0RP0a6vQ/s640/52.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>a letter from the future</b>, published in March 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/03/letter-from-future.html">here.</a>‎ A two-fer! The picture is from <a href="http://draft.blogger.com/citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/06/side-x-side.html">side x side</a> In this post, he tagged a “Lyssa.” I am <i>soooo </i>tempted to ask her if she really did find a gray hair.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fSnxlNnxGHc/UfUJCKIiPWI/AAAAAAAAX4E/h51zfEIMzW8/s1600/53.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fSnxlNnxGHc/UfUJCKIiPWI/AAAAAAAAX4E/h51zfEIMzW8/s640/53.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>side x side (II)</b>, published in January 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/01/side-x-side-ii.html">here.</a>‎ I wrote this after getting promoted. Since he didn’t, he had to change a few lines. He also recreated the picture I used in the post. IMHO, I did it better. :x<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2ZVrDnmkkaA/UfUJEgA-_-I/AAAAAAAAX4M/0YcISIjBjd4/s1600/54.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2ZVrDnmkkaA/UfUJEgA-_-I/AAAAAAAAX4M/0YcISIjBjd4/s640/54.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>sorry story</b>, published in January 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/01/sorry-story.html">here.</a>‎ He loves my Story stories. He even published the prequel (see next)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-inGfnTB_p-k/UfUJHm0jRkI/AAAAAAAAX4U/WgxnZstZscg/s1600/55.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-inGfnTB_p-k/UfUJHm0jRkI/AAAAAAAAX4U/WgxnZstZscg/s640/55.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>write me</b>, published in June 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/06/write-me.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lvMkqaPyTtM/UfUJLNVcSmI/AAAAAAAAX4k/Ki64y4h81UE/s1600/56.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lvMkqaPyTtM/UfUJLNVcSmI/AAAAAAAAX4k/Ki64y4h81UE/s640/56.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>somebody loved</b>, published in May 2012 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/05/somebody-loved.html">here.</a>‎ Pares to bagnet. That’s actually not a bad idea.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4IQgCpZP2L4/UfUJMhnyq3I/AAAAAAAAX4s/h-DhnsQXyZA/s1600/57.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2idFlT5PQuM/UjS9dyhPXjI/AAAAAAAAYAk/LfvliAWaZE0/s800/57.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>breaking</b>, published in December 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/12/breaking.html">here.</a>‎ In this post, I talk about my desire to come out to my parents and the fears that come with it. I think if you’re the type to wear a gown and high heels with matching full make-up, THEY PROBABLY KNOW.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eU8KxBmQzo4/UfUJNwg67qI/AAAAAAAAX40/jVDlNa7GCCo/s1600/58.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eU8KxBmQzo4/UfUJNwg67qI/AAAAAAAAX40/jVDlNa7GCCo/s640/58.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>three of three: right or wrong</b>, published in April 2012 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2012/04/three-of-three-right-or-wrong.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gGiZpWC5H8U/UfUJPZ7mV1I/AAAAAAAAX48/HJAbdwhphNw/s1600/59.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gGiZpWC5H8U/UfUJPZ7mV1I/AAAAAAAAX48/HJAbdwhphNw/s640/59.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>disconnect</b>, published in December 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/12/disconnect.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Lv86XW6tDnc/UfUJR_pxmVI/AAAAAAAAX5E/nYvNtv9yiVQ/s1600/60.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-SR62Qm1CaGQ/UjS9fUAHelI/AAAAAAAAYAw/ej27pqzi7Hg/s800/60.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>look at me i'm twenty-three</b>, published in August 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/08/look-at-me-im-twenty-three.html">here.</a>‎ And when he turned 24, he posted <b>beachbuoy </b>(see top of post).<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IV-_6_36MOs/UfUJUeHfSeI/AAAAAAAAX5M/HzKRxIVopJM/s1600/61.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IV-_6_36MOs/UfUJUeHfSeI/AAAAAAAAX5M/HzKRxIVopJM/s640/61.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>two letters</b>, published in September 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/09/two-letters.html">here.</a>‎ This really freaked me out. He had handwritten drafts and the actual note. Sabi ko nga kay Z, di kaya ako yung nang-plagiarize? YJ says maybe I’m stuck in some Johnny Depp movie where I feel like I’m chasing a murderer only to find that it was me all along.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R0LqqBTkxy4/UfUJVEkU_CI/AAAAAAAAX5U/GZ9PTCNRo8Q/s1600/62.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qAj61-YpW80/UjS9f7tWO4I/AAAAAAAAYA0/0UMDMpu7-k4/s800/62.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>bibingka</b>, published in June 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/06/bibingka.html">here.</a>‎ I wonder if he knows the bibingka place closed down two years ago.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OUTfhuBaOug/UfUJWWULOxI/AAAAAAAAX5c/BveQPgO9KEk/s1600/63.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-1r2HV1e1zss/UjS9gkO3sQI/AAAAAAAAYA8/LNl9EHATC9g/s800/63.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>to be enough</b>, published in April 2011 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/04/to-be-enough.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yVlObTbwOoI/UfUJYz9iIwI/AAAAAAAAX5k/GZ26jpOqM-M/s1600/64.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-osCSVpkIwI4/UjS9iStZS3I/AAAAAAAAYBM/1g6ez-Aj5Bs/s800/64.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>envy</b>, published in February 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/02/envy.html">here.</a>‎ Am I the only one worried about how he’s holding this baby? #dangerousselfie<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7yi8NZd-o-k/UfUJcVPObOI/AAAAAAAAX5s/eN_4BPkX6zo/s1600/65.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7yi8NZd-o-k/UfUJcVPObOI/AAAAAAAAX5s/eN_4BPkX6zo/s640/65.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>fix me</b>, published in May 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/05/fix-me.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RTIrrqBEoHg/UfUbVry9VdI/AAAAAAAAX7A/IDsUrOmr9bI/s1600/66.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RTIrrqBEoHg/UfUbVry9VdI/AAAAAAAAX7A/IDsUrOmr9bI/s640/66.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>leaving</b>, published in September 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/09/leaving.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qJAGR2E7ksg/UfUJgb_g8jI/AAAAAAAAX58/izJC7a5gbz0/s1600/67.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qJAGR2E7ksg/UfUJgb_g8jI/AAAAAAAAX58/izJC7a5gbz0/s640/67.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>love for sale</b>, published in February 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/02/love-for-sale.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fQ66ZwPi8-o/UfUJiy7eLBI/AAAAAAAAX6E/EWoImmeQX9A/s1600/68.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fQ66ZwPi8-o/UfUJiy7eLBI/AAAAAAAAX6E/EWoImmeQX9A/s640/68.png" width="640" /></a></div><b><br /></b> <b>trial and error</b>, published in September 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/11/trial-and-error.html">here.</a>‎<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3-m6TBla9l8/UfUbmhYgBQI/AAAAAAAAX7I/UPRZUAe5RPM/s1600/69.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3-m6TBla9l8/UfUbmhYgBQI/AAAAAAAAX7I/UPRZUAe5RPM/s640/69.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>spit</b>, published in October 2009 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/10/spit.html">here.</a>‎ I wonder if he actually took a picture of spit. If I followed the timeline right, this is the first post he stole from me.<br /><br /><b>BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!</b> I wasn’t the only one lucky enough to be plagiarized.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-87A2ZDrEYXY/UfUbyR1RXSI/AAAAAAAAX7Q/IeIrBAOPU9o/s1600/70.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-87A2ZDrEYXY/UfUbyR1RXSI/AAAAAAAAX7Q/IeIrBAOPU9o/s640/70.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>A Criminal Mind: Free Fall</b>, published by Sprial Prince in March 2012 <a href="http://draft.blogger.com/thespiralprince.blogspot.com/2012/03/criminal-mind-free-fall.html">here.</a>&nbsp;Spiral is a dear friend and when I told him about what you did, you can imagine how happy he was.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a-4RmjdSfmA/UfUcSJcevOI/AAAAAAAAX7Y/h3Bpaz3iEHU/s1600/71.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a-4RmjdSfmA/UfUcSJcevOI/AAAAAAAAX7Y/h3Bpaz3iEHU/s640/71.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><b>Pagtataksil</b>, published by Ako Si Aris in June 2013 <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2013/06/pagtataksil.html">here.</a>This is a translation of <b>infidelity</b>, published in August 2010 <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/08/infidelity.html">here.</a> He promoted this post in Instagram saying this was his first attempt to write in Filipino and that he hoped he made his country proud. I think I speak for everyone when I say UM NO.<br /><br /><b>AND WE’RE NOT DONE YET!</b> As recent as this afternoon, our favorite plagiarist was at it again. Check out his status update for today.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n3zzPnHlGiI/UfUcZUZ7HjI/AAAAAAAAX7g/2oOs8R1QKIY/s1600/72.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-VuNTZy6wHgg/UjS9ho_XbxI/AAAAAAAAYBE/k3slRcBZc-k/s800/72.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>disconnect</b>, published in December 2011&nbsp;<a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/12/disconnect.html">here.</a>‎</div><br />The first question I asked is why. Why did he do this to me? Why did he go through such lengths to copy my blog? Why can’t he just write his own stuff? He doesn’t really look like someone who was starved of attention. Why go through such efforts for a few likes?<br /><br />But then a more thorough glance of his Instagram revealed that yes, he really is doing it for the attention. @_@<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9ueaxiAsEyU/UfUdA9vR6UI/AAAAAAAAX74/UjwmrluHJ6I/s1600/04.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-utz90XTCkyc/UjS9SwKBMYI/AAAAAAAAX_M/0ZrvQt37G0Q/s800/04.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dfqn7KoGsXM/UfUdAOMvEEI/AAAAAAAAX7w/49s3SEIKj0U/s1600/05.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qH5qKCpWzXM/UjS9T69m14I/AAAAAAAAX_U/ISYVwnBvVxU/s800/05.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AAN-_iL57Jc/UfUc-378FJI/AAAAAAAAX7o/d2twgkYnlDk/s1600/06.PNG" imageanchor="1" name="ending" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="386" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-5F-1RK88H08/UjS9Vz7UIYI/AAAAAAAAX_o/RdO-VNJkt1A/s800/06.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><br />And so to you, <b>Jp R</b>, I give you my full and undivided attention. Baka kasi kulang pa yung effort and attention I gave you while drafting this. From this point on, this post will be addressed to you.<br /><br />First of all, I want to thank you for being such an avid reader of my blog. You chose some of my best posts. It was a thrill to see them again today. That being said, there seems to be an issue with how you chose to show your love for my writing. They say imitation is the highest form of flattery. I regret to inform you that after I saw all that you stole from me, I was anything but flattered. I was angry. I was embarrassed. I was very, very, VERY upset.<br /><br />Here is a list of my demands. I hope you don’t think I’m asking for too much. Consider it payback for the 63+ posts you stole from me. :)<br /><ol><li>You will write an explanation and an apology. Let’s say at least 1,000 words? You can either email it to cityb_oy [at] yahoo [dot] com or post it as a comment below. I prefer the second option seeing as I know a lot of people would like to read what you have to say for yourself.<br /></li><li>You will do something about Gay Can Write. You can either delete it (and all other plagiarized posts), or you can change the title (It’s a really bad title, by the way. #imjustsaying). Here are some suggestions: Gay Cannot Write. Gay Can Copy. Gay Can Paste. Gay Can Steal.<br /></li><li>You will share this post on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. <u>I don’t think you would have a problem doing this seeing as you’re somewhat an expert at sharing my posts</u>. In the link that you will share, I want you to own up to stealing my blog posts. I want to read the comments that people will leave. I realize you might have to unblock me and send me a friend request so I can see your post. Don’t worry. I will definitely accept your friend request.<br /></li><li>You will promise to stop plagiarizing once and for all. As you wrote in that catty photo at the top, DON’T TOUCH MY STUFF.</li></ol>In return, I will not take you to court for stealing my intellectual property (which by the way is protected by a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/3.0/" target="_blank">Creative Commons</a> license). I will also remove all identifying marks on this post. What does this mean? I will blur out your pretty face and remove all instances of your name. Please do not expect anything more such as my friendship as that ship sailed the moment you started stealing from me.<br /><br />You have one week to pay for your crimes.<br /><br />Love,<br /><br /><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVI8ymngYPg/UfUgOugkXfI/AAAAAAAAX8I/EKJOQE4UZEs/s1600/logo.JPG" style="text-align: center;" /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; citybuoy<br /><br /><b>PS.</b> And to you, dear reader. I wish to extend my deepest apologies. I know exactly how this looks and I’m not proud of it. I hope you know that I am only doing this because I work very hard for this blog and to have someone just take that from me is completely unacceptable. If this happened to you, wouldn’t you do the same? <br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Lily Allen | Fuck You (2009)</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photos: <a href="http://instagram.com/" target="_blank">http://instagram.com/*****</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/*****</a></span>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com104tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-80689048538698763462013-07-08T12:58:00.000+08:002013-11-20T09:47:41.471+08:00stella and her waiting (3): next to me<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-QhW6hdQlZwM/UdpA6EIXKjI/AAAAAAAAXv0/8EPXjJiVmEg/s800/lake.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="32" valign="bottom" width="570"><embed allowscriptaccess="sameDomain" bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="titles=Emeli Sandé - Next to Me&amp;soundFile=http://allmuz.org/audio/161655610/-40913489/Emeli_Sande-10_Next_To_Me" height="24" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://podcasts.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 24px; width: 580px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="580" wmode="transparent"></embed></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OuINwPqrGs8/UdpA6F1Q0gI/AAAAAAAAXvw/TLryu1YYnNQ/s800/Emeli-Sande-Our-Version-Of-Events.jpg" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Some girls dream of having money. Some girls dream of fame. Other girls dream of finding a husband and bearing children, perfect visions of white picket fences. I only dream of love. And I remember the very first moment I found it. I was sitting at a bar with a couple of friends. He was a nice looking boy who mostly kept to himself. As the night drew on, our friends left one by one until it was just me and him. We were pretty drunk, me with my Tequila Sunrise, him and his San Miguel. As he ordered another round of drinks, we started talking about his girlfriend. It was a surprise to me. He had never mentioned her before.<br /><br />“What’s it like?” I asked, my heart cracked but not broken.<br /><br />“Being with Gina?” His eyes lit up as he said her name. It was a fire I had never experienced for myself. “It’s like a river, I guess. She’s calm and then she’s not. Sometimes being with her feels like I’m lost in a raft and the current’s too strong. But we’ve been together for so long, I just don’t know what life is without her.” Using his lighter, he popped the crown off another bottle as I took short sips of my drink.<br /><br />“How long have you been together?”<br /><br />“Uh... we ran away together when I was around nineteen? I got her knocked up. We ran away. Though she miscarried when we got to Manila, it just made perfect sense to stay here and keep living our new life.” Suddenly it made sense, how this boy worked so hard, often taking any and all opportunities for overtime work. I wondered what it felt like to have someone working that hard for me and whether I would ever find a lonely raft for my quiet river.<br /><br />As the waiter announced the last call, we capped off our drinks and settled the bill. He excused himself to go the restroom but couldn’t because he was so drunk. As we walked to his car, it became clear that he was in no position to drive. I offered to take him home. He tossed me his keys and slumped over the passenger seat.<br /><br />“Hey. Hey... Where do you live?” No answer. “Buddy, how can I bring you home if you don’t tell me where you live?” I attempted to flip him over for his wallet. Maybe it would have some identification on it. He resisted at first but soon lost all consciousness. I turned him on his side and fished out his brown leather wallet.<br /><br />There was a picture tucked in one of the sleeves. It was one of those cheesy studio portraits. He stood behind her, arms wrapped around her waist. They were both smiling. She was pretty, a little <i>morena</i> but nonetheless, she had one of those faces most people would call beautiful. He had longer hair then and they both looked like they had their best years ahead of them.<br /><br />My search for his address yielded nothing. Apart from a few loose bills and the picture, his wallet was empty. I couldn’t bring him home. My father would kill me. And so I did what made sense at that time. I took him to a motel.<br /><br />As we drove in, the attendant looked at me with a peculiar expression. Perhaps he was used to the girl being passed out while the guy drove in to take advantage. He helped me carry my drunken passenger to the room and we set him down on the bed. I sent him away with a small tip and an order for some coffee.<br /><br />He looked so peaceful, so unaware as he lay there sleeping. Even with the AC on, he was still sweating profusely. I took off his sneakers and his socks. There was a big hole on the right one and his big toe was popping out indignantly. The motel lights were warm and somber as I undressed him. He started moaning as I freed him from his left sock. I froze in panic. I knew how this would look. It was far from my first rodeo and you could spin it any way you want but there was no denying that there I was, in a seedy part of Pasig undressing an inebriated man. His fists clenched up as he grunted. I got up from the bed. With a deep sigh, he started to relax. He continued mumbling and I pressed an ear towards his chest to hear what he was saying.<br /><br />“Mmm... Don’t stop,” he beckoned. I took it as my cue to keep going. I straddled him between my legs and unbuttoned his shirt. As I stripped him of his clothes and lifted my skirt, I could tell he was awake. Still, he kept his eyes firmly closed that night. When they finally opened in the morning, I could see the disappointment, the regret that lay behind those dark brown pools.<br /><br />The next few months were a bit of a blur. He and I didn’t speak again after that night. It broke my heart but I knew not to expect. Then I started missing my period. I didn’t need a pregnancy test. I knew what I did but I didn’t expect that I would walk away from that night pregnant. I did not tell my parents and if it weren’t for that bump that refused to hide in any form of clothing, they wouldn’t have suspected anything. It was my mother who first noticed it and when she and my father confronted me, I told them a version of the truth that they would understand. We weren’t in love. It was a mistake. He shouldn’t have to know. That’s when my father slapped me so hard, he knocked me to the floor. My cheeks burned in pain and embarrassment. <i>You will tell him and he will pay for what he did to you. Or I don’t know what I’ll do.</i> That was his way of dealing with the problem. It was no idle threat, mind you and with that, we were forced to get married.<br /><br />I knew he didn’t love me. I could tell by the way he looked at me. There was no fire, no passion, nothing but absence. As the years went on, he pulled himself farther away from me. He would stay in the office until the wee hours of the morning, often crawling into bed at sunrise. I would lie in bed wide awake, wondering where he was or what he was doing. I knew that our marriage was killing him but despite all that, I also knew that I love him too much to let him go. And so although I know he isn’t <i>really</i> with me, I take comfort in the fact that he lives in my house, takes care of my son, and provides for our future. It may take him a long time to learn to love me or he may never learn at all. What matters is that for a few hours each day, we dream in the same bed.<br /><br />And so while some girls dream of money, fame, or success, I only dream of love - my husband’s. In my dreams, we are happy. We have picnics on grassy hillsides. He wraps a blanket around me as we dip our feet in the lake. He wipes the cappuccino foam off my nose and we laugh. He holds my hand in dark movie theaters, his buttery fingers clasped in mine. He is raising my son to be a good man like him. He tucks him in at night and kisses him lightly on the forehead. He makes love to me and holds me till the morning.<br /><br />When I wake from these dreams, I am almost always crying on an empty bed. My hands run through his vacancy and then another day begins.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Emeli Sandé | Next to Me (2012)</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Post: <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2009/06/three-dreams.html">three dreams</a></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: <a href="http://www.wholehealtheducation.com/living/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/wallpaper-968975.jpg" target="_blank">968975</a></span><br /><br /><hr /><b>HOLA!</b> Sorry this took so long. I recently faced a bit of a crisis in my professional life. An offshoot of that crisis is this <a href="http://nellyandnora.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">blog</a> I started. Please don't judge me. <img src="http://l.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons7/109.gif"><br /><br /><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--b5zMpF-FjM/Uj8r3adSAjI/AAAAAAAAYEQ/3zdBM5-kxAA/s800/stella.jpg" /><br /><ul><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/05/stella-and-her-waiting-1.html">Stella and Her Waiting</a></li><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/06/stella-and-her-waiting-2-running.html">Running</a></li><li><b>Next to Me</b></li><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/11/stella-4-shadowplay.html">Shadowplay</a></li></ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-35939019750105222772013-06-10T23:16:00.002+08:002013-11-20T09:48:18.321+08:00stella and her waiting (2): running<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-ID-5a8fR4TI/UbXslTXeyXI/AAAAAAAAXtk/9kjTAM_suaE/s800/running.jpg " colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="32" valign="bottom" width="570"><embed allowscriptaccess="sameDomain" bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="titles=Amy Winehouse - Love is a Losing Game&amp;soundFile=http://www.ceng.metu.edu.tr/~e1448786/back%20to%20black/106-amy_winehouse-love_is_a_losing_game-ukp.mp3" height="24" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://podcasts.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 24px; width: 580px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="580" wmode="transparent"></embed></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-2GVvgRl2tAk/UbXshKxA79I/AAAAAAAAXtc/3hzN-OmUTm0/s800/amy.jpg" width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />“There was a guy here who was looking for you,” said Joci while I was getting ready for my set. I looked at her through the mirror. She was putting on way too much eyeliner. “The funny thing is he called you by your real name. It took me a while to figure out who he was looking for.”<br /><br />And it felt like my legs had gone cold all of a sudden. Someone once told me that when you get really nervous, all the blood flows to your legs so you can run. <i>Part of evolution,</i> he said and for a second, it really did feel like I was going to bolt out the door. <i>Could it be that he was just here?</i><br /><br />“What was his name?” I asked, my voice uneasy and shaking.<br /><br />“I’m not sure. Was it Bruce? Or maybe Ryan.” My heart stopped. “Bryan. Yes, that’s the name. Does it ring any bells?”<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">My memories from our last night together are quickly fading away. There are times when I get confused about the day of the week or the color of the shirt he was wearing. All I remember with perfect clarity is the sullen look on his face. He couldn’t be with me and it was becoming clearer and clearer that what we had was slowly slipping through the cracks.<br /><br />“This is hard,” he said. “I don’t want to leave you. You know that, right?”<br /><br />“Then don’t.” I begged. “If we run now, they won’t ever find us. If you…” I couldn’t finish the thought. In my head, I could see her carrying his child, just as confused as we were. I saw her father, or at least a figure I imagined him to be like. In his hands he held a shotgun, a poor reimagining of a daytime soap opera where all the actors perform stiffly between poorly written dialogue.<br /><br />“And what? Spend the rest of our lives hiding from them? Escaping the responsibility I know I must face?”<br /><br />“But what about me? What about us? Bryan, I left my life to be with you. I have nowhere else to go. Aren’t you responsible for me too?”<br /><br />“Gina,” he said, his hands on my face. “I know you. You are strong. One day, we’ll be together. Just wait.”</blockquote><br /><i>One day, we'll be together. Just wait.</i> That’s the promise I’ve held on to all these years. I learned to get by, to live my life as though it were a movie and I was just sitting in the audience waiting for the happy ending. My heart hardened into a cocoon. Though men have often tried to pierce it with their promises of stability and a good future, I have always known that my heart can only beat for one man.<br /><br />“Ready Stella?” asked Bookie, peeking through the small hole we use to scout the men. I dabbed a bit of concealer on the name tattooed on my hip. I tightened my bikini top as I got up, endeavoring to momentarily forget about the man who held my heart prisoner.<br /><br />“Oh, he asked me to give you this,” Joci said. “He says you’d know what it is.” She handed me a copper cufflink, a cruel reminder of the love I once had and lost to the wind. I took the present from her and pinned it to my garter.<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">“I can’t let you go.” My tears had become too strong to hold in. “I just can’t. This,” I said, bringing his cupped hands to my heart. “This… this can only beat for you. I thought you understood that.”<br /><br />“I do. I really do. But I can’t do this. If we leave, if we run from this mess that I made, I’m gonna put you in danger too. And that’s just not fair. You are the courage I need to get through this. I just need a year, two at the most. Then I’ll come back and we can be together.”<br /><br />“Let’s run away. Please Bryan, let’s run away.” My voice was dry with desperation. The cool June winds shook the trees as we spoke. With all my heart, I wished it could blow us away.<br /><br />“We can’t. <i>I can’t</i>. I’m sorry.” Six words that broke my heart.</blockquote><br />I wonder what men see when I’m dancing. My hips move to the music, my undergarments snap off to the beat. Do they think of me when they come home to their wives, smelling like Red Horse and stale cigarettes? Do I remind them of the life they once had as horny teenagers, fapping to their father’s Playboys? Or do they see me for how I really am – a bit of road kill stuck to the burning asphalt. By day, I am too little, too unimportant for their affection. But at night when they are with me, they whisper empty promises in my ear and push bills down my underwear. At night, I am who they want me to be and who I was or how I got here is just an unfortunate consequence.<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">“Let’s run. Just for tonight, let’s run away.” I said. I got up from the pavement, tossed my purse into the nearby bushes and started running for my life. I kicked hard on the road and with it, I wished to stomp at all the things that were keeping me from him. As the cold evening air stabbed through my face, I felt I was shedding the weak skin I once held.<br /><br />Bryan caught up with me and we held hands in the moonlight. We ran because we had to, because we really couldn’t, and because for once, it felt like we were escaping the hand of cards life dealt us. We ran together, ran ‘till the air burned in our lungs and it felt like they would explode. And when they didn’t, we ran a little more. <br /><br />I collapsed onto a field of grass, the blades wet with dew. Bryan lay beside me and he kissed me lightly on the cheek. He held me as we quietly watched the stars above us. And when we’d caught our breaths and I’d wiped my tears, he stood up and left me in the grass with my broken heart.</blockquote><br />I walked to the center of the stage while the lights were dimmed. As the intro to my song played, my right hand absentmindedly fiddled with the cufflink on my thigh.<i> If he was here still, he would see that I’m doing just what he said. I’m waiting.</i> From far away and deep down the quietest corners of my heart, the singer sings the story of my life. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i>For you I was a flame<br />Love is a losing game<br />Five-storey fire as you came<br />Love is a losing game<br /><br />One I wish I never played<br />Oh what a mess we made<br />And now the final frame<br />Love is a losing game</i></div><br />And though many memories from that night have slipped away from me, I will never forget the fevered thoughts I held back as we lay quietly in the grass. <i>Maybe if we ran fast enough, we’d outrun every little thing in our way. Maybe if we pushed hard enough, we would look back one day and see that we'd won.</i><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Amy Winehouse | Love is a Losing Game (2006)<br />Photo: <a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/p480x480/536482_467474943325588_94255487_n.jpg">night race</a></span><br /><br /><hr /><b>OOPS.</b> Sorry about that. I know I promised I’d post this a few weeks back but things got kind of crazy at work and between that and having to fly to Davao to see my parents, I lost my train of thought. <i>Aaaanyway,</i> there’s one last part to this <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/search/label/stella">series</a> and I hope I can find the time to just sit down and write. Ooh and also, <b>Aris</b> (who I collaborated with <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/05/guadalupe.html">here</a>) translated a <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2010/08/infidelity.html">post</a> from three years ago! Check out his (and by association, <i>my</i> :p) awesomeness <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2013/06/pagtataksil.html">here.</a><br /><br /><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--b5zMpF-FjM/Uj8r3adSAjI/AAAAAAAAYEQ/3zdBM5-kxAA/s800/stella.jpg" /><br /><ul><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/05/stella-and-her-waiting-1.html">Stella and Her Waiting</a></li><li><b>Running</b></li><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/07/stella-and-her-waiting-3-next-to-me.html">Next to Me</a></li><li><a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2013/11/stella-4-shadowplay.html">Shadowplay</a></li></ul>citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8618806.post-15684639206728775632013-05-19T17:45:00.000+08:002013-05-21T20:12:58.631+08:00guadalupe<i>This post is based on the ever prolific <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b>Aris</b></a>’ Oh Boy! originally published in 2009 <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2009/01/oh-boy.html" target="_blank">here</a>. To see his reworking of <a href="http://citybuoy.blogspot.com/2011/12/disconnect.html">disconnect</a>, click <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2013/05/disconnect-bitiw.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</i><br /><br /><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td background="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-zah8c5iEBEc/UZhvBefWW5I/AAAAAAAAXsg/9wMnPpM4z8Y/s800/bed2copy.jpg" colspan="2" height="350" width="620"></td></tr><tr><td align="left" height="32" valign="bottom" width="570"><embed allowscriptaccess="sameDomain" bgcolor="#ffffff" class="citybuoyodiogo" flashvars="titles=Imago - Spolarium&amp;soundFile=http://dc383.4shared.com/img/944519331/468a1627/dlink__2Fdownload_2Fk70CoDIf_3Ftsid_3D00000000-000000-00000000/preview.mp3 " height="24" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" src="http://podcasts.odiogo.com/plugins/audio-player/player.swf" style="height: 24px; width: 580px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="580" wmode="transparent"></embed></td><td height="35" width="50"><img align="right" height="35" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-UXKx7g_TBbY/UZhsfokVQII/AAAAAAAAXsE/Cw7j8AVwpJI/s800/ultraelectromagneticJam.jpg " width="35" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />They say the night is for the lovers and I guess, some part of me recognized that. The bar was packed from wall to wall with people dancing, enticing, trying to make sense of the world outside the corners of that room. And while I myself had a different purpose for coming here, we all moved to the same rhythm, to the same beat of a heart seeking another.<br /><br /><blockquote>I guess you could say at the end of everything that I got everything I deserved. I knew he was dangerous. I knew what power he had over me and yet there I was, at the time and place we agreed to meet, heart firmly up my sleeve. From the thinning crowd, he walked towards me and kissed me lightly on the cheek.<br /><br />“Miss me?” he asked, sly and inviting.<br /><br />“Of course,” I replied. His was a power I knew long ago not to question. He took my hand and led me to his car.<br /><br />That night, marinating in sweat and sex, I told him I was in love with him. I looked to him with questioning eyes, waiting for a response.<br /><br />“I’d love you, I mean really love you but…” he paused, the ellipsis thick and imposing in the air. “But I can’t. I’d tell you it’s because I’m dying but then baby, aren’t we all?”</blockquote><br />I felt at one with the rhythm. The bar smelled like trapped smoke, sweat, and desire. A man brushes up from behind me. I turn around and he smiles. A Top 40 song starts to play. The whole bar was hooting in unison as I got lost in the eyes of my beautiful stranger.<br /><br />“Aris,” he says.<br /><br />“Leo.”<br /><br />“You come here often?”<br /><br />“Not really. I’m not from around here.”<br /><br />“Well, it’s great to meet you,” he says, extending his hand. I shake it mildly then bring him closer for an embrace.<br /><br /><blockquote>Denial is the strongest force in the universe. I tried to ignore the signs even though they were blatantly emblazoned throughout the day – a weakening body, a defeated spirit, a bit of blood in my spit. It took all the courage in me to answer the questions in my head. The lab technician stabbed a needle in me one day to get blood, truth, and clarification. As the counselor handed me a frail sheet of white paper, I knew that though my lover had gone and left me, there was always going to be something he left behind that would remind me of the gamble I took and lost. <br /><br /><i>Reactive.</i> What a cruel word. The counselor told me I shouldn’t let it control my life. I feared that since my lover left, there was no life left to control.</blockquote><br />We dance as though it were foreplay. My hands roam the many districts of his body – his ample chest, his muscular arms, his broad shoulders. My fervent lips were busy claiming his as my own. As the crowd blurs away like an overexposed photograph, I remark at how wonderful it feels to be with him, how at peace I was with this warm body, this beating heart, this thrilling feeling of love blossoming in one night.<br /><br />“Can you be my boyfriend?” I ask. He smiles at me tentatively, like he was expecting a different question altogether. The song that was playing slowly fades into silence as the DJ flips a new record to play.<br /><br />“Let’s get out of here.”<br /><br /><blockquote>The days after my visit to the clinic were long and painful. I took it all in quietly, knowing not to stir too much hysterics on an already hysterical life. For days, I got lost in confusion and despair. I wanted to blame him, wanted to cast him as the villain who took over my life. But then I remember that I was the one who fell for him. I was the one who took his hand and got in his car. When one loses their face down a well, there is little left to do but fall in after it.<br /><br />Despite everything, I could not hate him. I couldn’t bring myself to despise all that he did to me. When the dust settled, I saw everything with painful clarity. I knew what I had to do to be set free.<br /><br />I would visit him one last time at the place where we first met. It was the only way to keep him, to keep his memory alive and burning in my mind. Maybe then, I would find peace.</blockquote><br />Over breakfast with his friends, we are a picture of a perfect couple. My arms rest naturally on his side and every now and then, I rest my head on his shoulder. His friends interrogated us into the wee hours of the morning. Their faces are welcoming but their tones betray bitter pangs of jealousy and judgment. <i>Not another one,</i> they seem to say. <i>How long will this one stick around?</i> I steal light, feather kisses whenever I can in between spoonfuls of beef tapa and fried rice.<br /><br />He looks at me, or rather through me. His gaze jars my very soul. My head was telling me that this could work. That maybe he’d find a way to fix me, to put my broken pieces together. But my heart would not let go. <i>He will never understand. He will run when he knows who you really are. There’s only room for one in here.</i> I close my eyes and feel his lips on mine, all the while my lover’s face shines through the darkness.<br /><br />We settle the bill and get ready to leave. He asks if I want to come over to his place. I say I’ve got stuff to do, people to see, a life I need to get back to. He hails a cab for me and right before I get in, I kiss him one last time on the cheek.<br /><br />“Text text,” he says, even though we didn’t exchange digits.<br /><br />“Yup,” I answer. As we drove away, the woman on the radio sings the story of my life. I close my eyes and imagine her words filling my head.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i>At ngayon, ‘di pa rin alam<br />Kung ba’t tayo nandito<br />Pwede bang itigil muna<br />Ang pag-ikot ng mundo?</i></div><br /><blockquote>“Boss? Boss…” the driver wakes me. I open my eyes and the 8AM sunlight blinds me. “Saan po tayo?”<br /><br />I hesitate for a second. “Sa Guadalupe,” I tell him and as we made our way through the city, I realize that for the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m finding my way back to <i>free</i>.</blockquote><br />POSTCRIPT: <b>Man commits suicide inside MRT station</b><br /><i>Posted at 05/08/2013 12:09 PM</i><br /><br /><b>MANILA</b> - Operations of Metro Rail Transit (MRT-3) were disrupted after a passenger allegedly committed suicide by jumping in front of a train Wednesday morning.<br /><br />Makati police chief Col. Manuel Lucban said the man appeared to have committed suicide, and that he did not accidentally fall onto the tracks. The incident occurred at 8:18 a.m.<br /><br />MRT general manager Al Vitangcol said the train station's closed-circuit television (CCTV) footage shows that the man indeed jumped onto the tracks.<br /><br />The man's body was mangled after being dragged by the train for about 30 meters. He was already dead when the rescue team arrived.<br /><br />The MRT management had to suspend the operations of the train system due to the incident.<br /><br />The DOTC said that "MRT is on provisional operations from North Ave. to Shaw stations and vice versa until further notice. Please bear with us. Thank you."<br /><br />Due to the incident, some passengers were forced to get off the train even before it could reach the station.<br /><br />Passengers had no choice but to take other means of transportation following the disruption of operations.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">♫: Imago | Spolarium (2005)<br />Post: <a href="http://akosiaris.blogspot.com/2009/01/oh-boy.html">Oh Boy!</a>, <a href="http://www.abs-cbnnews.com/video/nation/metro-manila/05/08/13/man-commits-suicide-inside-mrt-station">DZMM</a><br />Photo: <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g15st7r7Zbw/UYEsx6hA42I/AAAAAAAABVs/g7vxUJqTzKw/s1600/bed2.jpg">bed2</a></span><br /><br /><hr /><b>DON’T DO IT! </b>I thought twice about posting this because I was afraid of the message I was sending. This post is a work of fiction. In no way am I encouraging suicide or mongering fear/hatred for those living with HIV. I highly encourage everybody to check out <a href="http://www.loveyourself.ph/" target="_blank">Love Yourself</a> and get tested today. Also, the Philippines recently launched a suicide hotline. If you feel lost or hopeless, contact 0917 588 HOPE.citybuoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00750180276675423002noreply@blogger.com51